Confession (15 page)

His eyes glittered in the moonlight. “Don't kid yourself, Faith.”

And before she could answer, the driver was there, opening the door for her to step out of the car and begin her special evening on the town.

Her feet had just hit the sidewalk when Luke's cell buzzed. He pulled it out to turn it off and stopped short.

“What?” she asked, not liking the sudden change in his expression.

“It's from Torpedo—­nobody gives a damn Dante recanted. He says get ready for the fight of our lives.”

 

TWENTY

Sunday, August 11, 3:00
P.M.

F
our more days.

Scourge's thoughts were as repetitive as the
tick tick tick
of the clock he'd purchased from Burton's Antiques that hung on his kitchen wall. He stared first at the swinging brass pendulum, then out the kitchen window, then back to the pendulum again. Ever since his reconnaissance mission to Dr. Clancy's place, he'd been ruminating about that boy Tommy and his dog. And now, through his own stupidity, because he'd sent that photo without taking his usual time to think things through, he'd pointed the police's attention to Tommy and made matters worse.

It wasn't like him to be careless. Not at all. He really wasn't himself these days.

He let out a long sigh.

The animal was an easy enough fix. Scourge had no qualms about slipping the mongrel a nice piece of beef from Hugo's butcher shop—­marinated in antifreeze, of course. The mangy mutt was already sick. Anyone could see that. He'd be doing the bitch a favor, putting her out of her misery—­no harm, no foul. In fact, he'd make sure Chica—­yes that was what Tommy had called her—­would meet her maker in style. He'd decided on filet mignon for the poisoning. How many dogs get to feast on a filet as their last meal?

But the boy was a different matter.

In many ways, Tommy reminded him of himself at that age—­all curly black hair and slumped shoulders. Like Scourge, the boy seemed underdeveloped and scared of his own shadow. In other words, a puny loser. Probably got bullied more than most.

Besides, Tommy had those imploring eyes that called out,
love me love me love me,
but you just knew no one ever had. Scourge thought about sparing him. As far as he could tell, the kid hadn't told the police about their little encounter yet. But, of course, he couldn't know that for certain. He fisted his hands and clamped his jaw shut.

No witnesses.

The book was very clear on that particular point. Four years ago, in Amarillo, a kid named Jeremy Jacobs had seen Scourge with Kenny Stoddard. Scourge knew then he shouldn't have let Jeremy live. Closing his eyes, he remembered that nagging voice:

Would you forget that damn book, for once? Sometimes you have to think for yourself. Jeremy's become a suspect. Killing him will eliminate him as one. No one believes him, anyway.

And so he'd broken the book's rule, and he'd let Jeremy live. Now there was another witness, Tommy. Scourge had convinced Tommy he was Faith's brother, and he didn't think the boy would talk, but he couldn't take that chance. If Tommy
did
give the police a description, they might put it together with what Jeremy had told them four years ago, and this time, they'd believe it. This time, they'd come looking for the black-­haired man.

No witnesses.

Killing Tommy might not be part of the original plan, but then again, neither was spending the rest of his life in prison,
or worse.
His stomach knotted. He didn't want to end up hanging from the end of a rope like Perry, for Chrissake. They say you lose control of your bowel and bladder when they hang you, and that was completely unacceptable to Scourge.

Tommy had to die.

But . . . maybe he could think of a way to make his death a positive experience. Like Chica and the filet mignon. He'd ponder that one a while and see what he could come up with.

Head throbbing, he went to the kitchen cabinet and downed a handful of aspirin. He used Bayer baby aspirin because he liked to be able to swallow a handful at a time, just like good ol' Perry used to do. Next he made his way to the bedroom, stripped off his shirt and slacks, hung them up neatly. As he slid the mirrored closet door closed, his reflection caught his eye.

Bending one knee, he flexed his right biceps, animating his blue tiger tattoo. Trying out various growls, he entertained himself with blue tiger sound effects until his throat started to itch. Then he dropped to the floor and did fifty push-­ups. Under the bed, his guitar craved attention, so he slid it out and set the case on his bed.

He popped open the latches and removed his treasured instrument. Next he retrieved an amber bottle of guitar honey, spray cleaner, and a tin of Carnauba guitar wax from a dresser drawer.

After carefully removing its strings, he ran his hand over the smooth maple body of the instrument and trailed his fingers up the rosewood fret bar, closing his palm over the neck of the guitar. His hand slid up down up down up down. His dick warmed, and his pants grew pleasantly tight. With spray cleaner, he misted the maple and rubbed it dry, then applied a thin coat of Carnauba. The clean, crisp scents of oils and cleaners brought his senses to life and made his skin tingle with excitement. Appreciatively, he sniffed the wax tin once or twice before replacing the lid.

The guitar wax would need to dry before he could buff it out and polish the maple surface to a hard, bright shine. No problem. While he was waiting for the wax to dry, he had other, equally enjoyable things to do. Uncapping the amber bottle labeled guitar honey, he let the contents drip into his cupped hand. Next, he drew his lubricated hand over the fretboard, up down up down, until the fine rosewood must've been as ready to come as he was.

But he wouldn't come.

Not now anyway. A man should be able to control himself, and this was not the place to do his business. Gently, he laid the guitar back in its case to dry and headed for the bathroom to wash his hands. Once he'd cleaned them, he'd step in the shower and properly relieve himself in a way that wouldn't soil his sheets. There was a right way and a wrong way to go about things after all.

But a moment later, the sound of the faucet running and the tactile rush of water flowing over his hands had him ready to explode. He shut off the faucet and, gritting his teeth, dragged off his underwear and socks. He took the time to carry them back to the bedroom so they wouldn't absorb any humidity from the shower. Nothing worse than damp socks in a hamper, smelling up the place.

Another mirrored glimpse of his blue tiger tattoo acted as an aphrodisiac, and he quickened his strides.

Hurry up. You can make it. Don't soil the carpet.

His control thinning, he skidded back into the bathroom and leapt into the tub, grabbing the shower curtain and yanking it back at the same time. The plastic curtain rings made a high-­pitched noise as they scraped across the shower rod.

Then came a different sound, a metallic
clank, clank, thunk.

Too late, he remembered what he'd asked of Hugo the butcher.

His heart froze as a slackened rope tightened and jerked, sending a bucket toppling from the window ledge above the shower.

The
flooding
! It was happening now!

He covered his head with his arms as blood from the falling bucket sprayed him like bullets. His head snapped back, and more blood filled his nostrils, sickening him with its tangy smell. Warm, sticky fluid coated his eyes, drained into his mouth, dripped down his torso.

His dick responded to the tepid liquid by spurting milky jets onto his stomach. He opened his mouth, swallowed more blood and gagged on the clots. As he climbed from the tub, he stumbled, then some part of his brain went awry. His muscles seized, and he fell jerking onto the bathroom floor. His skull hit the tiles with a resounding crack, and the seizing stopped.

Half-­blinded with blood, he lay still on the floor, unable to hold back an agonizing scream—­a scream that made the spasms start up again. Finally, the convulsions ceased, and he hobbled to his feet. His hands were covered in toxic blood, and he smeared them on the tile wall behind the tub. Up down up down up down. His dick came to life again.

No!

Do not lose control!

He slapped his dick, sucked in a blast of air, and waited for his member to deflate. Then he looked up and saw his handiwork on the wall. Five bloody letters now dripped from the tiles. He doubled over, panting, his body spent.

The bathroom door creaked open.

A new burst of adrenaline hit him hard, and he whirled around to find Hugo the butcher standing in the doorway, mop in hand, mouth agape.

Don't lose control.

But it was too late. He bit his tongue hard as his heart pumped pure rage into his veins.

“Oh, man. I thought I'd check up on you. Make sure you hadn't changed your mind. Guess I got here too late.” Hugo's eyes rounded. “Did it work? Are you cured?”

Digging his fingernails into his naked thighs, Scourge crouched, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

He was a tiger.

A blue tiger.

He growled.

Hugo lifted his hands. “Take it easy, buddy. Just take it easy. Good thing I came back. It's gonna be oh k-­kay.”

His growl erupted into a primal scream, and he saw clumps of hair in his fists.

“I warned you this was a wrong idea. Anyone who's seen
Carrie
ought to know it was a crazy idea.” Hugo ventured a half step in his direction.

I am the tiger.

He pounced, knocking Hugo to the floor and straddling him, closed his paws around his throat.

T
he throbbing in his head and the burning bile in his throat woke Scourge a split second before he vomited a gray substance that looked and smelled like fish guts onto his lap. He had no memory of what he'd eaten that day, nor did he have any memory of falling asleep with his back against a cold wall, chin bobbing against his chest.

Fuck.

Moaning, he lifted his bowling ball of a head and used his fingers to pry his sticky eyelids fully open, which is when he saw the white toilet gleaming in the darkened room.

The bathroom.

Nighttime. He'd fallen asleep in the bathroom. This was highly improper . . . and unhygienic. Because he deserved it, he slapped himself in the face. His hand felt wet, and he stared at his black, gooey palm. His legs, stretched out in front of him, jerked and jittered. Yes, he'd mopped the bathroom with Lysol yesterday morning, but the idea of his bare hands and legs touching the floor, a place where he
walked,
sometimes in
shoes,
made his stomach heave again. This time, only a thin jet of liquid spurted out of his mouth. As his eyes flicked around the room, his vision adjusted to the dark a bit. He tried to get up but wound up on all fours, waiting for the next wave of nausea to hit.

And then he saw him.

Hugo.

Fuck.

His friend, Hugo the butcher, sprawled on his back next to the bathtub, arms flailed, neck torqued, eyeballs rolled back, skin purple as the puke dripping from Scourge's hands.

“Hugo!” he cried, his voice hoarse from retching. “Hugo, wake up!” He crawled to his friend and poked his chest with his index finger, but Hugo didn't move. “Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!” He grabbed his friend's arm. It was stiff . . . and cold like the tile.

Next, he grabbed Hugo's head, forcing it from side to side. Purplish streaks and spots marched around Hugo's neck and over his chest above his collarbone.

Dead.

Strangled.

Somebody strangled Hugo. Frantically, Scourge made the sign of the cross, squeezed his eyes closed, and began reciting his prayers.

Rosary.

He needed a rosary. Opening his eyes, he looked toward the moonlight slicing in from the bathroom window. The light shone from above, cutting through the dark like a heavenly flashlight . . . and like a flashlight held against your hand, the light shone bloodred.

Blood!

Blood. Blood. Blood.

Blood smeared the white tile walls. He looked down. Blood soaked his hands. He crawled to the toilet and hurled another burning stream of bile. He wobbled to his feet. Looked in the mirror. More blood streaked his face and chest and stomach, even his genitals were covered in blood.

He jerked the faucets on, flooding the sink with water, dunked his head below the surface and kept it there until the lack of air threatened to explode his skull. He came up for a breath, then soaked his hair and face beneath the faucet, eyes wide open, cold water flushing them clean. A minute later, he felt his mind snap back. Then his memory came rushing at him like the water spewing from the faucet.

The flooding technique hadn't worked at all. And now Hugo was dead. Strangled. Scourge wasn't cured, and he'd lost his only remaining friend. He'd made a dirty mess in his bathroom. But he could clean it up.

He had to clean up his mess.

He yanked open the cabinet below the sink, grabbed his scrub brush, and inch by inch scoured all traces of blood from his body. During this time, he puked more than once, but eventually he got himself clean. Then he wrapped his freshly washed feet in bath towels and stumbled naked into his bedroom, turned on a light, collected what he needed: gloves, sheets, garbage bags, rope, bleach.

Rosary.

Heart thumping in his chest, he eased the bathroom door open once more. His stomach convulsed as he looked around—­most of the blood was contained within the tub where the bucket had fallen. Blood was also on the back wall behind the tub and clotting in the drain. Pinching his nose with one hand, he closed his eyes and jerked the shower curtain closed. At an agonizing pace, he cleaned all the streaks of blood from the bathroom floor with bleach.

But the tub and back wall were impossible to face.

He'd have to wait until he was cured to clean them. In the meantime, he'd hide the mess behind the shower curtain, and he'd sponge bathe himself in the sink the way mothers bathed their babies. The thought gave him comfort. Besides, it was all he could do.

Unlike the tub, however, Hugo would have to be dealt with now. He couldn't leave a dead body on his bathroom floor. Then, suddenly, something akin to pride welled in his chest. He could kill again. He
had
killed again, and all on his own. True, it was a bloodless kill, but it was a kill nonetheless. He rolled his friend over and went to work binding his hands and feet with the ropes.