ARC: Crushed (20 page)

Peter Phearson is one of the city’s wealthiest inhabitants. Popular, successful, good looking for an old man, and, of course, a generous philanthropist. He also happens to be a serial killer, and the finest psychopath Philadelphia has had to offer since the Frankford Slasher. When Phearson was arrested, the dear citizens of Philadelphia didn’t want to believe it.

But then the evidence came out. Then more evidence. Photographs, bodies in his house. It was irrefutably true. He had done it. The city was ready to lynch him. Of course they didn’t. Decent people that they are, they waited for the courts to deliver justice.

How grown adults can still manage such naivety is shocking.

Phearson is a clever beast. He knew this day was coming and planned for it; set his dominos in place carefully to fall in a grotesque pattern when the time came. He made powerful friends – the close kind of friends who whisper their darkest secrets. Secrets that could get them arrested were they ever uncovered.

A clerk “accidentally” ruined the chain of custody of the murder weapon; a police officer “forgot” what he saw at the scene of the crime; the DA bungled the case, missing court deadlines left and right; the judge constantly ruled in the defense’s favour – the list goes on.

The world was forced to watch in horror as the judge signed an acquittal. The country watched in silence as a gleeful Phearson tripped down the courthouse stairs. He wore a brilliant red shirt, as if waving a flag in front of the bull of the city. You could feel the creeping hopelessness of a nation realizing for the millionth time that life is not fair.

The most fascinating part of Phearson isn’t his technique (though I admit, the man has style), but his response to the whole affair. He doesn’t bother to hide his guilt. The mask has come off, and he laughs in the face of the city, sneers his contempt, and delights at their helpless rage. He didn’t just plan for the day of his capture, he looked forward to it.

But we aren’t all helpless, Mr Phearson.

For the past several weeks Armand and I have been toying with him. A special piece of work like Phearson deserves some special work of our own. I want him to feel the thump-thump of terror. Live under the grind of chronic fear. I wanted him to know we were coming. I want him to know he can’t stop us.

We flicked his dominos one at a time.
Thump
: the corrupt police officer disappeared (well, most of him at least. Pieces were found).
Thump
: the not-so-honorable judge’s indiscretions were revealed to the world – in his suicide note.
Thump
: the world learned that the district attorney, rotten beast, benefitted off some lovely insider trading tips on Phearson, Inc. One by one, each mistake was revealed for the corruption it was.
Thump, thump, thump.

It’s enough for a mistrial, of course. But I credit Phearson with enough cleverness to get to the court of appeals before the case does. That is, if he has the time.

He doesn’t.

And all through this Phearson’s been watching. At first telling himself it’s a coincidence; then growing more and more terrified as he realizes it can’t possibly be. He can’t miss the message, he’s far too clever:

We’re coming for you.

On an estate as large as Phearson’s, it was an easy thing for Armand and I to slip onto his property and leave things where they ought not to be. Red things. Red like the shirt he wore to his acquittal. Red like the blood of his victims; red like my rage. Red like the pieces of him I will pull off and not put back.

Red flowers from the judge’s garden appeared on his kitchen table. A red apple from the police officer’s lunch lands in his dining room, a toothy white bite taken out of it.

More guards! More cameras!

A red pillowcase on his fanatically white bed.

More locks on the doors!

A wall of his bathroom painted red.

He replaced all his guards, then replaced his security company altogether. Still the gifts appeared. At the urging of his baffled guards, he relocated to his downtown condo. It has few windows and fewer doors, not to mention it’s forty-eight stories off the ground.

Now
, he thinks,
now, I am safe
.

Tonight we show him that he is not.

My thoughts move happily through a red-splashed daydream, and I let out a little contented sigh. At the sound, I see Armand’s mouth stretch into a soft smile. He’s watching me.

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

“Peter Phearson,” I answer, and shiver a little at the sound of his name. “Why? What were you thinking about?” I ask him, because, really, what else is there to think about mere hours before the event? It’s like expecting a kid to think of anything other than presents on Christmas Eve.

There’s the briefest pause. “Same.”

Chapter 24

Peter Phearson’s condo is the entire penthouse floor of a highrise in downtown Philidelphia. It employs doormen and parking attendants and security cameras. The elevators require a key. Phearson attempted to fill the lobby with armed guards upon his arrival, but not even a serial killer can compete with the determined viciousness of a homeowner’s association. His guards were sent packing.

Instead, Phearson filled the hallway outside his condo with a good half-dozen burly men, and has four more stationed inside his condo. Three walk rounds, and one follows Phearson wherever he goes, including the toilet. Even for number two. Given what I know he’s capable of, I suppose I shouldn’t be quite so horrified by this, but I am. Even we serial killers should have some standards of decency.

The guards are armed, well-trained, and well-paid but they are also, unfortunately, only human.

Night falls and deepens. It’s only 11 and this part of downtown is busy on a Friday night, with people returning from late dinners and drinks with work buddies, or on their way out for more determined night-living.

Or lounging in the shadows, preparing for a little homicide.

Armand and I dressed for the occasion. He looks like a Calvin Klein model in a narrowly cut grey suit, tie, and a rakish little hat. I’m in a red dress that looks like a stylized version of a man’s dress shirt. It buttons up the front from hem to neckline, and is cinched in the middle by a thin belt. It’s short, justifying my black leggings. On my feet are expensive black heels with red bottoms, and an enormous expensive handbag hangs from my arm. We stand in the shadows, and I rest against the wall behind me as Armand leans over, his arms braced on either side of my head. We look for all the world like an overly-wealthy couple coming home from a date.

Armand presses in, his permanent smile playing on his mouth, and when he breathes I smell peppermint. The look in his eyes makes my breath come a little faster. He slides in a little closer, crowding me, surrounding me with his scent. I tip my face up, just a hair, so our lips are in line. Sensing an opportunity he bends towards me, but just as our lips are about to touch, I stop him with a question.

“How much longer?” Then I lift a brow to let him know I was screwing with him.

Some might call me a “tease”, but don’t believe it. “Tease” implies that I owe him something, that I should feel guilty. As if my flirtation is forced on him and he merely tolerates it for an eventual pay-out. That’s bullshit. We both have goals in our little game; why should his goal (sex) take priority over mine (to mess with his head)? Is it because he’s a man?

In that case I must object on principle. Superhero Meda establishing gender-equality one almost-kiss at a time!

He presses his forehead against the brick wall behind me and groans before glancing at his watch. “Two minutes.” When the new guard arrives he goes through a routine of getting settled before he really focuses on his job. He makes coffee, goes to the bathroom, sets up his iPod, chitchats with the guy leaving. We know because of the camera we planted in his office.

Armand pulls his phone from his breast pocket, and opens the app streaming the footage from the office. He starts. “He’s early.” Armand shoves away from the wall. “Who shows up to work early?” His tone is full of disgust. “Come on,” he says, reaching out his hand for mine, and the young-couple-not-quite-in-love stroll around the corner.

My fingers are twined through Armand’s and I sway into him as we walk up the street, looking harmless and a little tipsy. We stroll past the opening to the parking garage with the attendant sitting in his little air-conditioned booth. A black metal fence rings the parking garage, but there’s a locked gate to allow residents in on the far side. As we near it, Armand pulls his phone from his breast pocket and watches the surveillance footage. He tugs at my hand, slowing our pace, then speeds up again a few seconds later. The guard is distracted. We reach the gate and with a quick jerk of my wrist I break the lock. There’s a loud metallic screech-and-snap that catches a few eyes. If I had a crowbar it would look suspicious, or if I were big, manly and poor. But a small, expensive girl with only her bare hands is never anything to fear.

I smile as if the noise embarrassed me, and pull Armand through the gate. We stumble into the elevator, entwined. We don’t have keys, so can’t actually go anywhere, but the door still closes for several seconds while it waits for us to make our floor selection. When we don’t slide a key card into the slot the doors open again to disgorge the disappointed passengers, but by then we are already up through the ceiling and into the elevator shaft. Armand checks on the guard while I strip out of my dress, revealing a black tank-top. I shove the dress and shoes into my purse and pull out my sneakers. Armand strips down to his bogeyman gear – black fitted pants, black tee. I pass him his shoes. I leave the bag in the elevator shaft to grab on our way out.

Then we climb the cables forty-eight stories to the penthouse, and past it. There’s an access door set above the elevator’s machinery to allow for repairs and we pull ourselves out onto the roof. The wind blows gustily and the lights of the city spread out below.

But we are not here for the view.

We slip across the roof, then drop down onto the patio outside of Phearson’s condo. The patio is large, and covered with enough exotic plants to qualify as a botanical garden. There are two sets of French doors. One set leads into the bedroom and another into the living room. A guard stands in the living room, his back to the patio. He’s a large black man and must weigh at least two-hundred and fifty pounds. He holds the classic secret-service pose, feet spread hip-width apart, arms loosely crossed in front of him. We head to the bedroom doors instead.

The bedroom is decorated entirely in white, like the one at his house. It’s dimly lit by a lamp on the nightstand, though there’s no one in the room.

Afraid of the dark, are we, Phearson?

I look to Armand, who crouches on the patio next to me. He’s lit by the light shining from the bedroom, and lit from within with a giddy excitement. My heart pounds in response, because it’s finally time. Once I jerk this patio door open the fun begins. I wrap my fingers around the cool metal handle, and my skin feels hotter in comparison. I smile and bite my lip, revelling in the feel of flesh on teeth, even though it’s my own. For now.

The handle cracking under my hand brings a rush that makes me gasp.

Armand and I coordinate without planning and without words. We glide through the silent apartment, taking out the first guard, then the second, laying the now-still mountains of men on plush carpet. We don’t kill them. My rule – Armand lobbied hard for the alternative.

Men who willingly take orders from evil men should be tarred with the same brush, he argued. But for the complicity of their servants, the world’s worst monsters would never have succeeded. Where would Hitler have been without his SS? Or Stalin without his NKVD?

It’s a solid argument, and it’s hard to remember my counter-argument as the second-to-last guard flails under my chokehold. I feel his carotid artery throb against my restraining arm as I deny his blood its path to his brain. I could squeeze too hard, I could twist with a snap, I could pull with a wet plop and all the life flooding through those veins could be mine. It would billow through me, beautiful as a rainbow, bubbling like champagne.

Armand holds the guard still, keeping his struggles silent. Armand’s mouth is slightly open, showing his teeth, as he breathes in the guard’s terror. Our eyes meet, and I know with the slightest nod of my head, he would go for it. He’s dying to do it. The call that pulls me pulls him just as strongly, but he hasn’t anything holding him back.

Blessedly, the guard stills and I haul my self-control back.

We bind and gag him, leaving him limp on the floor. Only Phearson and the guard at his side remain in the apartment. We decided to leave the six outside the apartment alone. It’s funny, the thought of them guarding the door of a dead man. In the morning, they’ll scratch their heads as CSI’s cameras flash, wondering how such a thing could have happened.

Light pours from a mostly-closed door at the end of the dim hallway, splashing on the wall. Anticipation builds, dragging up our pace with it. I already know what I’m going to say, what words I’m going to string together into a noose. It’s not that I rehearse – a natural needn’t. Rather I daydream, enjoying the pleasure as long as possible. I imagine the pleading, the terrified look as reality strikes.

At the door Armand and I share one last bloodthirsty look. I press my hand to the door and peek in the crack.

And stop.

Phearson sits in a wing chair, his knuckles white as he grips the arms of the chair. He already looks terrified – but he’s not looking at us. He’s not alone.
What the hell?

Someone got here first. The Hunger screams its denial.

He’s mine
. I bite back a snarl. I shoot a glance at Armand, who has pressed himself to the wall at my left, so he, too, can peer in the room. His face has the same monstrous denial. Our blood is running too hot, our Hunger running too free. We behaved with the guards; we deserve our reward.

Whoever it is, they will give him up or I will add their body to his.

I bite back the rage and force myself to ease the door open. Phearson doesn’t spare it a glance. Fair enough, as the opening door reveals the barrel of a silencer, attached to a handgun, which is held in a black-gloved hand, attached to the end of a black-clad arm – which is attached to the entire person of Crusader-in-Training Joanna Ruins-Everything-Fun Beauregard.

Her pissy eyes meet my shocked ones. “Took you long enough.”