|Horror and Thriller Fiction posted June 2, 2013||Chapters:||-1- 2...|
Cleve Hawkins,former Chicago cop,tracks down a serial killer
A chapter in the book Fatal Beauty
Shadows of Evil
A serial killer is on the loose in the Windy City.
It was a perfect night to bury a body.
The man in the slicker walked stooped over, his breathing labored and his body was soaked in sweat. The weight he carried, though not substantial, was awkwardly draped over one mammoth shoulder. The rain had shriveled to a heavy mist and the sky was beginning to lighten. It had rained all afternoon. At times soft, then drizzly--and at one time it was vicious, as it bombarded the trees and leaf-covered ground.
It was never easy carrying a lifeless body through the woods in the middle of the night, especially when the terrain was so uneven, but Bart was in superb shape at six-foot four and weighing a hefty two hundred and fifty. pounds. A cocky confidence guided each of his steps and the Austrian nine-millimeter Glock he carried was certain security.
Twisting his ankle en-route was unexpected, of course, but it didn't phase Bart. He kept moving. Years ago, as an inmate at Menard Correctional Facility, he had trained his mind to ignore physical discomforts. And when the mind didn't pay attention, neither did the body. The mind controlled pain and the mind could make it go away. He had survived agony with that simple philosophy. The cold and misty rain was a pain in the ass and it made the going that much more challenging. He grunted as he trudged into the darkness like the devil into hell.
He stopped and twisted his bull-like neck to look back. Standing in place for several moments, he listened, and stared into the darkness from beneath heavy lids. Of course nobody was following him. That was ridiculous. He had a sixth sense for danger before he could see it, smell it, or hear it. Blood slugged through his veins as he scanned the area, his lungs expanded and contracted his heart.
Using this location for so long was brilliant. The densely wooded area was sixty-six miles south of Chicago, a quiet downstate area where everything was green. Sparsely located buildings were gray, gross little shacks accompanied with pickups on blocks situated miles away from a little town with no 7-Eleven. An area full of hills they called mountains, but weren't.
Nobody in their right mind would have reason to venture this far into the woods. Not even the local hicks. And if they did--even years from now--they'd find bones, but nothing to implicate him. Animals would most likely find the bodies long before the cops, did.
Bart noticed a thin line of blood had trickled down his forearm. What the hell is that about? The young woman's body, wrapped in bedcovers and plastic garbage bags, should not be leaking at all. Yet, there it was, her blood. It wouldn't matter, of course; the rain would wash away everything including his footprints, but caution still tweaked his brain just a titch. In his world, the things you didn't notice could hurt you. Hiking the bundle higher up on his shoulder, he trudged on.
A hundred yards ahead lay the gully, his special cemetery, overgrown with brambles, brush and ferns. A well-hidden shovel would be there, stashed from his last visit two months ago.
Side-stepping down the hill, Bart reached the bottom and flat ground, where he dumped his load like a burlap bag full of potatoes. The smell of voided bowels was strong as he squinted to study the sky. Despite the persistent cloud cover, daylight would squeeze in shortly. It was essential to finish his work before dawn and be gone. He began to use the shovel.
As he dug the shallow grave, Bart doted on how easy this one had been. Women were so damned dumb. That was their problem--all of them. So many of them went out partying alone at night. What kind of sense did that make? He could have stalked them, but he rarely had to; they were always available and ripe for the picking. The bundle at his feet contained one of the whores from Ernie's bar on Halstead Street- just one of the many flesh markets Bart prowled.
Yes, women had that hairy gold between their legs that a man would die for. They figured they could twist a dude any way they wanted--whenever it suited them. Well, that just isn't so, now is it? He growled at the body as he pitched dirt over the head. "Not always your way-- right bitch?"
As he finished the burial, Bart pondered his special sex-filled action that afternoon. Ernie's in the daylight looked like most crappy bars look in the daylight- crappy. It smelled of flat beer, grilled onions, illegal cigarette smoking and body odor. Some chairs were turned over on the tables when he got there.
A baldheaded barkeep was leaning over the bar, bullshitting with a dude in a cheap-looking suit, and two uniformed CTA drivers were arguing about something or other at the other end of the bar. Two-thirty in the afternoon and the place was damned near empty when the woman came in. She sidled up to Bart where he sat on a stool, nursing a mug of Old Style, as he watched the Cubs' game on WGN.
It was nothing new. Bart's unusual appearance, though gruff, sometimes attracted women. He wasn't handsome by any means, in fact, rather odd looking. His eyes were the deepest blue, so striking, they made him look like he was wearing cheap contacts. He had no lips, and ears that stuck out perpendicular to is head like a chimpanzee's. His chin was littered with serious zit-craters; he wore a wife-beater and faded black jeans. An old fedora covered spiky red hair that hung ragged over his ears and looked as though it had been trimmed with pinking shears.
The young woman's flip-flops announced her approach. She was just what he liked: pretty in the girl-next-door sort of way, yet too sexy for her own good. She had shoulder-length, baby blond hair, tortured into waves, worn parted in the middle and tucked behind her ears. It was obvious she took good care of it. She wore designer jeans and a T-shirt that said: "Love Sucks--True Love Swallows." Good attitude, Bart thought. He loved it.
Obviously, she didn't need a bra to keep her boobs in perfect position and looking perky. The condition of her skin and the smoothness of her hands told him that she had not worked outside at all. Probably spent most of her days in bed and the rest in the bars. He suspected she wouldn't be missed. The muscles of his gaunt forearms twitched, like worms under the skin, when he thought about what he could do with her body squirming under his. Bart's mind drooled.
"Hi, can I buy you a drink?" he half-whispered. Mr. Polite. He smiled, showing incisors and lowers crooked enough to give an orthodontist wet dreams.
"Sure, why not," the girl had chirped and smiled. "Whatcha ya doin', watching the Cubbies lose again?"
Bart glanced away as if he was suddenly uncomfortable. "Yeah. Same old, same old," he said, as he pulled back the neighboring stool. "Here-have a seat. Let me buy you a drink. He remembered thinking she might be a pro.
The girl didn't hesitate at all. She checked out the bottles behind the bar, as if her experience with drinking was very limited. "Thanks. How about an Absolut and tonic? I heard those are good."
"Sure thing. I'm Tom, by the way." Smiling, he extended a big, rough hand then waved to the bartender and ordered her drink.
"I'm Chelsea. Good to meet you, Tom." She smiled and leaned in close. "I don't suppose you've got a joint, do ya'?" He felt her hot breath on his neck and when she gave him her hand, it sent vibrations to his crotch.
"Sure thing." He pretended to sweep the bar with his eyes before he said, "Not here though."
"No, no-of course not; later, that's cool." She winked.
Bart couldn't believe how dumb and needy this girl seemed to be. He was so damned horny and this girl was perfect.
After a while, he could see that she was a blabbermouth, but he put up with that. He figured it was all part of a stupid game and a small price to pay for the rewards.
Two hours later, as the bar became busy with the after work crowd, she clung to his arm and they left Ernie's. She was a little tipsy but steady on her feet considering the four drinks she'd put away. That might have worked against him, he thought but not likely. It wouldn't have mattered either way; she would be his.
He drove to a white clapboard dump: The eaves of the motel were lit with pink neon tubing. Two stories of frayed carpets, stained sheets, and a pink flamingo that looked tacky, if not out of place, on the south side of the city. The building was shaped in an L around a narrow parking lot and typical customers were whores renting by the hour, wannabe pornographers shooting "amateur" videos and rent jumpers needing a place to stay while they found a new landlord to screw. You rented a room, you didn't find them clean, and you didn't leave them clean. Smears of blood were commonplace at the Sleep E-Z motel.
When they reached the room he had rented, Bart continued to charm. "Go ahead, cop a squat-make yourself comfy," he said.
Before he could offer her a beer Chelsea said, "Where's the bathroom?"
Dumb broad. That was always the first fucking thing out of their mouths, he thought.
He heard the flush. When she came out she swayed a bit and said, "now, where's that joint?" She made sure the pink tip of her tongue was outside of her upper lip, which made Bart think of a blow job, as it was supposed to.
"Easy, Babe.. We'll get to it." He laughed when she asked for another Absolut and tonic just as if she was still at Ernie's.
. "Sorry, I'm fresh out of vodka," said Bart. He handed her a can of Schlitz. "This'll have to do."
"Fine," she said as she pranced over to curl up on the armchair and tucked her legs under her heart-shaped ass.
Bart turned on the TV and parked on the bed and listened to her blab on and on until he'd had enough. His erection swelled and he was more than ready to take her.
She wasn't willing of course--but he didn't want it to be consensual. He craved the thrill of using muscle. He stood up and gritted his teeth as he towered over her. "Shut the fuck up!" He hit her with an openhanded slap to the face that caught her off guard and knocked her out of the chair. She was in shock when she hit the floor, too stunned to cry, too frightened to protest. He clobbered her with his iron-hard fists, over and over again, until, her face was smeared with blood.
She was barely conscious and moaning when he tossed her on the bed, duct-taped her hands and feet, then crammed the washcloth into her mouth. He didn't bother to undress. Loosening his belt, he dropped his jeans and jockey shorts. After slipping on a condom, he shoved her legs apart and took his time raping and sodomizing her.
Tears streamed down her cheeks; her muffled screams counted for nothing but his intense pleasure. When he was satisfied, Bart had taken a pre-loaded syringe from his jacket pocket and jabbed it into her neck.
He lit a Marlboro, as he stared at the gory mess he had made of her cute face. He grinned.. The tranquilizer worked as it always did. She was out of it. He turned up the volume on the TV when she stirred and moaned. His toothy smile widened as he stared into her terrified eyes-his face only inches from hers. He needed to remember those eyes--open wide and pleading, as the girl's head tossed from side to side. He allowed her that for a moment or two--savoring the power--the raw excitement of witnessing her fear. She grunted and moaned when he cocked his Glock with the silencer and crammed the pillow over her head. He squeezed the trigger and fired a hollow point bullet into her head. Whump!
The minutes ticked by, slow and heavy after that, the excitement was gone, as if it had been flushed down the drain and Bart felt the dreaded let-down, knowing the best part was over. He smirked and slumped against the wall, his interest gone. With a need to stay awake until well after midnight before he could get rid of the body, he popped three Benzedrine pills, chased them with a beer, then stretched out on the couch and stared at the lifeless body over on the bed with all the expression of a broom. He remembered the helpless look he'd seen in her eyes and got excited again, even thought about masturbating-but changed his mind.
By four in the morning , he was jumpy. His skin crawled and his heart was going like a trip-hammer as he finally slipped the bloody pillowcase over the girl's head. After he Rolled her body up, inside the funky-looking motel bedspread, he used three garbage bags and duct tape to finished the job. After walking the room and checking to be sure he'd left nothing behind, he yanked her body up and over his shoulder. He opened the door just a crack to check the hallway before slipping out. He paused-- pulled the door closed--and hustled to the an exit door that faced the alley on the west side of the motel. He stopped briefly to look around. It was quiet; the streets appeared to be empty. He left the body lying just inside the door and rushed to his Volvo. After opening the trunk, he walked back, picked up the bundle and dumped it in the trunk. A moment later, he was headed south, out of the city.
After he scraped the last few shovels of dirt over the woman's body, Bart lit another Marlboro and looked up at the edge of dawn. He thought, I won't tell Lew about this one. Nope. No way. . . Fuck him
Thanks to Dean Kuch for the art work. Good job!Pays one point and 2 member cents.
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