Don't Read After Dark: Keep the lights on while reading these! (A McCray Horror Collection) (7 page)

“Please, I’ll…” Evie gulped. “I’ll do
anything
.”

And in this moment, she meant it.

“Sure, right,” Back snorted. “That’s what you say now, but then your little fucking knife comes out, and ‘whack.’”

Evie ignored the rapist and focused on Igor. “Please,” she said, more silky than desperate. “I’ll be so grateful.”

Igor rose up with a box full of cupcakes. Cupcakes. This place was so wrong, just wrong.

He set a cupcake in front of each cell, then abruptly left.

“No, no, no, no, no,” Evie cried, but the man went out the door, then slammed it shut.

Darion put his hand on her shoulder. Evie spun around, the metal fragment at the ready. She might be ready to offer herself to the strange man, but Darion? Unless he had a key out of here, no way.

“I told you,
Webster’s
.”

Darion held up his hands in surrender. “If there’s dessert out there, then there’s going to be a free-for-all soon.”

The cold sound of a metal lock reverberated through the dungeon.

Evie rushed to the cell door. “No! Come back!”

* * *

Jake came down the stairs, drying out his ears with a plush Egyptian cotton towel. Evie’s home phone rang several times as he wrapped the bath sheet around his waist. The top edge of the towel brushed against the base of his scar. Not even its luscious softness could sooth the angry red tissue that ran from his pelvis across his abdomen and up his chest. The shrink kept telling him to put the incident behind him, but it was a little hard when that scar stared back at him every morning.

The answering machine beeped. “Evie, I’m not sure if we got our wires crossed, but I thought you were coming in this morning.”

“Well, somebody besides Herbie is missing you,” Jake commented.

The voice went on, “Look, we’re really short-handed, so if you get this message, please call.”

Jake checked the caller ID. “West Valley Women’s Shelter.”

He felt his breath catch in his chest. It couldn’t be.

“No!” he yelled to Herbie as he grabbed his clothes.

* * *

Darion continued ripping sheet strips while he watched as Evie leaned her forehead against the bars. Her arms were still out, as if begging could bring Igor through the door.

“Please,” she whispered into the dungeon. “Come back.”

Esau, of course, was reciting scripture as the rest of the men prepared for the free-for-all.

“He’s not coming back,” Papa said.

Evie stood up, blinking a few times. Tears streaked down her face. “I shouldn’t be here. This is some horrible mistake.”

“Yes, yes it is,” Papa agreed. Of course Papa agreed. His whole grandfather shtick required empathy. “Just like me. I shouldn’t be here, either. A case of mistaken identity. A travesty.”

“Look!” Andrew announced. “Some of the cupcakes have sprinkles!”

Back snorted. “Seriously, you’re the one who shouldn’t be here.”

“You don’t even qualify as a serial killer,” Door commented.

“That’s a lie!” Andrew shouted back. “By the FBI’s guidelines, I’ve killed three people on three separate occasions with no motive such as monetary gain. I did it for the pleasure of it.”

“Yeah, right,” Clyde teased, although the strain clearly showed on his face as he balled up in pain. “The first one you… you…”

Since it didn’t look like the hick was going to finish any time soon, Door continued, “You accidently stepped on the guy’s oxygen tubing.”

“No,” Andrew protested. “I just
convinced
everyone it was an accident.”

“You tried to give the guy CPR, ya dork,” Door said. “You had no idea that was
you
choking him off.”

Andrew tossed his head in indignation. “I still caused his death and got a taste for it.”

Back laughed harshly. “Excuse me? Your second ‘kill’ was a broad in a coma. How hard is it to kill someone who is fucking brain dead?”

After a humph, Andrew crossed his arms. “My third wasn’t.”

Door shook his head. “Yeah, but she was eighty-seven, senile
and
paralyzed from the waist down.”

“
Plus
,” Back stated, “you killed her in her sleep!”

Andrew straightened up. “Still! She woke up and put up a fight, man.”

Darion was used to the banter. What else did everyone have to do in the dungeon during the long hours of down time? Evie, though, was crying again. Quietly, but still crying.

“Are you ready to listen?” Darion asked.

She shook her head, causing tear drops to spray across the bed. “Leave me alone.”

“Once those door open?” Darion said. “There will be no negotiating. No amount of gratitude will save you. They’re all be pain.”

“Just leave me alone!” she shouted, brandishing her metal fragment again.

CHAPTER 8

Jake rushed into his lieutenant’s office as the older man was going over some paperwork. He looked years older than his fifty-nine years. The graying of not only his temples, but eyebrows and mustache only accentuated the effect. Plus all those worry lines. Being a cop was not easy on the aging process.

The lieutenant looked up as Jake entered. “Aren’t you off?”

“Yeah, but I’ve got a break in the case.”

“Great,” Lieutenant Breaker said. Then his bushy eyebrows knitted together. “Wait. You don’t have any active cases.”

Jake pulled a folder out from under his arm and put it on Breaker’s desk. “The Starvin’ Marvin case.”

Breaker took off his black-rimmed glasses and looked at Jake. “You do realize that’s not an actual case, right?”

Jake tapped the folder. “You call five women dead from a week’s worth of starvation
natural
causes?”

The lieutenant shook his head. “Jake, they were homeless, and I believe one of the supposed victims frequently refused food at the soup kitchen because she insisted that Christ himself was going to bake her bread.”

Jake sat down hard on the wooden chair opposite Breaker’s desk. He hated the way his lieutenant looked at him. He hated the way everyone in the station looked at him. The pity and disappointment, but also the fear—it haunted them just behind the eyes. No one liked to have their mortality challenged. And Jake was one big walking billboard for what could happen to you on the job.

They all viewed him as broken, damaged goods.

Funny—while he was in the hospital, everyone was all about how much they missed him, how much they could hardly wait until he was back in the barn. Until, of course, he’d actually come back into the barn. Then, the sideways glances. The awkward silences. The shunning. Jake couldn’t blame them. It was human nature.

Although had he known how crappy his life was about to become, he probably wouldn’t have worked quite so hard during the six months of grueling physical therapy and the hours upon hours of talk therapy to get him through the worst of the PTSD.

To think, he could have just been lying back in a Jacuzzi, taking his sweet time to get better.

But here he was with a lieutenant who didn’t trust him and a station’s worth of detectives who didn’t want to be his partner.

“Look, we can argue the merits of the case, but the fact is another woman has been taken.”

Instead of touching his chin in a reflective manner against his chin, Breaker’s eyebrows went up again. “Really? Because I didn’t see anything on the blotter.”

Also part of the problem was that Breaker had been a great detective before his promotion. This wasn’t the old adage, “those who can’t do, teach.” Breaker had the instincts, and had always put Jake through his paces. But now, it felt it was to make sure the Jake never got ahead of the game as he had done before.

Jake sighed before answering. “That’s because she’s been gone less than forty-eight hours.”

Breaker put his glasses back on and leaned into his chair before he spoke. “So are you missing the glory days? Is that what this is about?”

Yep, this is what his life had descended to. His own lieutenant suspecting his motives for wanting to hunt down a serial killer. Guess he was going to have to prove to his supervising officer that he really was onto a case.

“Evelyn Montgomery volunteered at the woman’s shelter, and her blood was found in an alley alongside a fresh set of van tracks. And her friend thinks that ‘something awful’ happened to Evelyn. What more do you need?”

Breaker put his elbows on his desk and leaned forward, looking at Jake above his glasses. “I thought we agreed that you’d work your way back up to psychopaths?” He shoved the file back toward Jake. “You know, start with a little shoplifting, and maybe try your hand a few hit-and-runs?”

“Lieutenant!” Jake tried to interject, but Breaker overrode him.

“No,
Braut
. You’ve got to go home and get some rest. The department imposed your four-day work week for a reason.”

Jake stood. “So I am expect absolutely no help on this?”

“Absolutely is a harsh term,” Breaker conceded. “But correct.”

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Before his injury, Breaker would have given Jake,
carte blanche
, as many men and resources as he wanted. Now, what? Did he expect Jake to beg?

“Fine,” Jake said. “If you won’t help me, I’ll find someone who will.”

Jake got up and headed for the door. Breaker pushed his glasses further up his nose and went back to his paperwork. “Okay.”

His lieutenant didn’t even respect him enough to bust his chops.

A sad day indeed.

* * *

Evie rocked back and forth on the cot. She didn’t know what else to do. The motion helped calm her nerves. At least she wasn’t crying anymore. Her sides still hurt from her last crying jag.

Darion still sat at her feet, pulling strips from the sheet. The other men—well, the other men were taunting Clyde, trying to throw things at his crotch. Evie didn’t feel a bit sorry for him.

“Bastards!” Clyde yelled, throwing a button back at Andrew.

The chime sounded again and the ever-so-pleasant voice announced, “How lucky you are! Potpourri will begin on the count of three.

Darion turned to Evie. “I’ve got to explain—”

Evie didn’t even stop rocking as she answered. “Leave me alone.”

How could this get any worse?

The rest of the men were cheering. Clyde pointed to her. “I may not have a cock, whore, but I’ll be fucking you over soon. Very soon.”

Something about this tone brought Evie out of her shock. “What’s…what’s happening?”

“Three,” the chime voice cheerfully said.

Darion rose and sat down next to her. “After the countdown, the doors are going to open.”

“Like last night?” Evie asked. That had been horrible enough.

“Yes. No, not like last night. Today…” He licked his lips before continuing. “Today, all the doors will open at once, but weapons will drop from the ceiling.”

Darion pointed up. She could see the cracks of the trap door.

“Unfortunately, we could get a semi-automatic assault rifle, or…”

“Remember the spatula?” Andrew asked the group. “That was the worst ever.”

Back sneered at her. “You counting the moments, bitch?” I’m going to push you against the bars and shove into you so—”

“Two,” the chime voice interrupted.

Darion put his finger on her chin and turned her to face him again. “We could be seriously out-gunned. Do you understand?”

Evie nodded, although she wasn’t sure if she could completely comprehend the horror that was about to start.

“Oh, I hope I get the machete!” Andrew squealed.

“Miss,” Papa said. “You’ve got to come to me. We’ll get through this dark time together.”

Door chuckled. “Yeah. Right. You only survived your first ‘Battle Royale’ because you got the spear gun.”

“Shit, Clyde over there could survive this one if he gets the fucking spear gun,” Back added.

Darion caressed her cheek, pulling her face to face with him. He brought up the strips of cloth. “Once I leave the cell, you’ve got to use these to tie the cell door closed.”

“One.”

“But that will lock you out,” Evie said.

“Yes, but once it is safe,” Darion glanced down to her hand. “That’s where your little friend will come in handy. You’ll cut through the ties to let me back in.”

Evie gulped hard. Being responsible for herself was bad enough. “But what if I can’t do it quickly enough?”

“You can do it,” Darion said.

“Or he’ll get zapped to shit!” Back announced, almost gleefully.

“But, like, no pressure though,” Door said.

“Weapons first,” the chime voice announced.

Everyone looked up to their trap door. What was going to come down?

* * *

Jake strode into the arcade and flashed his badge at the attendant. The place looked deserted and the attendant was busy counting little tickets on the glass counter.

“Thomas Cabrone?” Jake asked.

“Who?” the bushy Jewish ‘fro kid asked.

“Trigger Finger,” Jake said, using his informant’s street name.

“Oh, him?” the attendant said, nodding to Jake’s left. “He’s in the back.”

Jake walked to the back of the arcade to find a figure with his hoodie up, playing a first-person shooter game. He came up to the right of the guy.

“Police,” he announced.

The figure elbowed Jake in the side, hitting the super sore spot on his scar. His hoodie got knocked back to reveal the baby-bottom smooth face of a thirteen-year-old boy.

“Damn it, Brautmizter,” Tom shouted. “You almost get me killed
every
time you do that!”

Jake was glad to see the kid still had some spunk. He was one of the few people who treated him the same as they did before the injury. Jake pulled out a few quarters and popped them into the machine. It looked like Tom was busy killing zombies.

“You mind?” he asked before he hit the “add second player” button.

“To play against the only zombie hunter who’s ever come close to beating my high score? A pleasure, always.”

Jake took that as quite the compliment, and pulled the game’s gun and began firing at the zombies’ heads. There was quite the horde.

“I’ve got a problem,” Jake explained.