Depraved Difference (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery Book #1) Page 3

  Logan's heart leapt into his throat when he saw the video they had posted almost a year ago. Oh my God! This dude must have known her! Logan couldn’t bring himself to look away from the video; he still found it morbidly fascinating. Fear, and a modicum of shame, helped him keep a straight face at the scene they had added, however Aaron, either not as strong willed, or still ignorant to the danger they were in, let out a single laugh. Logan thought he caught a near imperceptible change in Wolf’s expression, but it lasted a mere moment.

  Wolf pulled a cell phone from his pocket and started recording, holding the phone out in front as he reached behind him. Logan knew what was coming, but knowing and seeing were two entirely different things. When the gun appeared he screamed into his gag. Aaron sobbed but his muffled pleas had no effect on the impassive Wolf who continued to hold the phone, capturing both in the frame as he raised the weapon. He squeezed the trigger as Logan closed his eyes and turned his head away. The blast caused him to jump as a warmth spread over his legs. He was surprised to feel no pain with so much blood pouring out until he realized it wasn’t blood. He had pissed his pants. He twisted his head to see Aaron but couldn’t. He spun the other way and saw his friend’s head lying on its side, a huge hole oozing blood and brain matter onto his shoulder. The world turned black.

  Merissa sat cowered in the corner and rocked back and forth, hugging her knees, as she had for hours, the realization she wasn’t the first person to be kept there sinking in. If she wasn’t the first, then she most likely wouldn’t be the last. And she doubted he had just moved his previous captive. Or captives. She knew they were dead. They had to be. She wracked her brain, trying to remember any news stories that might have mentioned someone being kidnapped and released. Or found dead. She kicked herself for not paying attention to the news. If I get out of this, I’m going to start reading the paper. But she knew she was never getting out of here. No! Don’t give up! There was always hope. As long as she was alive, there was hope. But if she was going to die, there was no way in hell she was going to give that bastard the satisfaction of dying by his hand. She would fight the son of a bitch with everything she had. If she were going to die, it would be because of something she initiated. She wasn’t going to just sit by passively and let some deranged psychopath have his way with her, then just kill her when he was finished getting off. That’s better! She felt a renewed sense of determination, the depression of the past several hours turning into anger. It was time to take control.

  Footsteps passed overhead, toward the center of the room, causing her heart to race, and her newfound determination to immediately waver.

  Feeding time.

  The light switched off, plunging her jail into total darkness before the platform began its slow descent. I guess he doesn’t want me knowing what he looks like. It reached the floor with a thud, the light from above setting it apart from the rest of the darkened room as if its offering the feature attraction at a museum. She knew he would wait until she retrieved the food. Not wanting him staring at her, she quickly got up, grabbed the food and water, and scurried back to the wall. The chains rattled as her captor yanked on them, beginning the platform’s ascent, the light from above slowly, relentlessly, shrinking, eventually into nothingness. Her tomb once again sealed in darkness, the light flickered, then blazed, a beacon to her despair.

  She took a deep breath, trying to settle her nerves once again. She eyed the food, wondering if it would be drugged this time. But do you really want to be awake? She thought about it. At least if she were drugged, she didn’t have to know what he was doing with her. But if she were awake, could she maintain control? What would happen if he discovered she were awake? Surely he would kill her? Maybe that’s what happened to the others? Maybe they figured it out too, and that’s what got them killed? She reached for the water, then stopped. No! You need to take control! Her hand hesitated, as if in its own battle of wills, inching toward the bottle, then darting back. Don’t do it! Don’t do what? Don’t drink it because you’ll pass out? Or don’t not drink it because you’ll be awake? She was pretty sure it was the water that was drugged. After all, it would be the easiest. Just add some drug, shake the bottle, and voila, knock-out juice. She took a deep breath and grabbed the bottle. Twisting the cap off, she raised it to her mouth.

  No!

  She tipped the bottle, the water rushing out toward her mouth. It hit her closed lips, and ran down her chin then neck. She stopped, the horror of her decision and its possible ramifications pumped adrenaline through her body. She quickly poured the water on her hands, washing them as best she could, then gave herself a quick camper’s bath. She ate half the sandwich before she could change her mind, and waited to see if it had any effect on her. After a few minutes her eyes drooped and her limbs tingled then went numb. Dammit! As she lost consciousness she took satisfaction in now knowing he was drugging the food. Next time….

  She awoke to sensations of a warm, comfortable bed, soft sheets atop a deep, cushioned mattress caressed her body as classical music played nearby, the smell of burning incense filled her nostrils, the pleasant vanilla scent causing her to breathe even deeper. For a moment she thought someone had rescued her, but when she felt the weight of a warm body on top of her, gently kissing her neck, she realized it was all a terrible nightmare. She was at home in bed with her husband. She breathed a sigh of relief and inhaled his cologne as she reached to embrace him. She stopped, not recognizing the scent. She opened her eyes and saw a man with a physique too well sculpted to be her husband's on top of her naked body, his eyes squeezed shut as he thrust himself at her, a look of frustration on his face. She was about to scream out for help when she noticed her rapist wasn’t hard. Let the bastard suffer! A smile spread across her face as she watched him, sweat building on his forehead, his face turned red in anger, the veins on his neck and face popping out as he continued in futility. He stopped and opened his eyes. She closed hers and wiped the smile off her face.

  “No!” he screamed. She only felt the first blow, the pain excruciating as the fist connected with her nose, the shock radiating outward, overwhelming her. She could imagine nothing worse until the next blow landed, hitting the side of her cheek. She felt her captor quickly move. She opened her eyes, thinking it might be over, but as she focused through the blur, she realized he was merely repositioning himself to straddle her chest. She screamed as he raised his fist and dropped it like a sledgehammer. She squeezed her eyes shut as a second blow rapidly followed, this one on the other side of her face. He continued to punch her, left then right, left then right, like an unstoppable juggernaut. She quickly numbed to the pain, it already overwhelming her senses.

  Please, God! Please end it!

  The blows didn’t stop, but the pain did, as she finally, mercifully, blacked out.

  Logan awoke with a start, puzzled to still be breathing. I’m not dead! He didn't feel like he'd been shot. He debated on whether or not he should open his eyes. Maybe he's gone? He opened one eye a sliver and immediately squeezed it back shut, the image of Wolf squatting in front of him, still holding the phone, burned into the back of his eyelids. Logan cursed himself. If he had kept his eyes shut he might have lived a little longer. And now he was going to die. Why is he waiting? Logan sat there and again curiosity won out. He opened one eye to see what was going on. The muzzle flashed six inches from his head. His brain never had a chance to register the sound.

  In the editing room, Aynslee, still shocked Jeff had let her keep the story, debated how much of the killing to show. He had always been sweet on her, something she used to her advantage from time-to-time, the tight fitting top she still wore a shameless reminder of today’s success. But the more she reviewed the footage, the more she wondered what she had gotten herself into. Why was it sent to me? Who sent it? How do they know me? The excitement over a career-making story drowned out the warning bells in the back of her mind. The logical part of her brain screamed to leave this story to someone else, to run in the
other direction, but the ambitious part spoke in a whisper, a whisper so alluring she couldn’t resist it, the siren call of the promised fulfillment of all her hopes and dreams, of everything she had ever wanted, too strong to not overcome any fears she may have.

  She stretched in the chair and spun it around, lifting her feet as she smiled at the fantasy. Something caught her eye and she dropped her foot, stopping the spin of her chair. She spied the intern as he stood behind a nearby divider, staring at her through its plastic window. He smiled and waved. How long has he been standing there? She quickly turned and tossed a casual wave over her shoulder in the hope it would be enough to ward him off, and returned to the debate of how much to show. It's just so graphic! She leaned forward toward the console and undid the last cut showing the shooting. But, violence sells.

  A knock at the door caused her to jump. She laughed to herself at the sudden realization of how on edge she was from the video, and turned to see who had interrupted her. The intern’s grin stretched from ear to ear, his face pressed against the glass fogged a small section. Please don’t draw a heart! He waved at her, the exaggerated motions indicated he wanted to come in. Before she could shake her head he opened the door.

  “Hi, Aynslee.” The way he stretched out the first syllable of her name made her cringe. And what happened to “Miss Kia”? His nasal voice caused a momentary feeling of pity. What a geek!

  “Hello…” She didn't even remember his name.

  “Reggie.”

  “ … Reggie. What can I do for you?”

  Reggie looked at the floor, his hands grasped at each other, the rapidly forming sweat glistened as he spread it around. Aynslee sat on her hands. “Well, Aynslee, I've been thinking a lot about our conversation last night.”

  What conversation? “Yes?”

  “Well, I've been trying to figure out what kind of music you'd like in your playlists.”

  What the hell is he talking about? She flashed back to last night. Definitely backfired. “Oh, you don't have to worry about that, Reggie. I've got plenty of music on my iPod already, actually I'm not sure if I have enough room.”

  “Not enough room?” This clearly excited him. “Do you have iTunes on your computer here? Never mind, I'll get you set up and create some playlists for you so that you can just update your iPod when you leave for the day, depending on the mood you're in.” Before she could stop him he headed out the door then spun around. “I'll set up some themes for you, maybe dance, classical,” and then he paused and raised his eyebrows up and down suggestively, “or love songs.” Another toothy grin followed by a guffaw and the door shut leaving Aynslee wondering what the hell had just happened.

  Her BlackBerry demanded her attention as it vibrated across the desk. She snatched it and read the subject line. Adrenaline rushed through her body as she saw it was blank, the incident with Reggie forgotten. She opened the message and saw it contained a lone video attachment. She activated the file and smiled as she saw what it contained. CNN, here I come! Then the wave of shame hit.

  TWO

  The rain fell in icy cold sheets, so hard Leroy’s exposed skin stung with each tiny impact. He pulled the threadbare remains of his trench coat as high as he could in a futile attempt to escape the downpour. Soaked to the bone, his skin numb from the cold, his hands shivered. He plodded forward, unsure if he could still feel his feet. But at least I still have you. He caressed the bottle of Jack Daniels hidden in his pocket, the brown paper bag shredding at the touch of his fingers, it too failing to escape the onslaught. He carefully pulled the bottle containing its precious elixir from his pocket, his shaking hands threatened to drop his hard earned reward. He rushed the bottle to his lips, as if once pressed against them, the bottle would never drop. He took a long swig to dull his misery a little more. His hands stopped shaking for a moment then swiftly resumed their previous rattle as he returned the bottle to the one pocket with no holes. “I need to get out of this rain.”

  “What about the warehouse?”

  Leroy nodded. “Good idea.” He stumbled forward, willing his legs, numbed from the cold and alcohol, to carry him the few minutes’ walk to the shelter. He pushed forward, through the driving wind and rain, the occasional swig fortifying his resolve. He rounded a corner and smiled. “There it is!”

  “Quit gawking and get a move on!”

  Leroy’s nostrils flared in annoyance and shuffled the last few feet, all the while warily examining his surroundings, on the lookout for anyone who might seek to steal his own private refuge.

  “Get in there you fool, there's nobody around!”

  Leroy grunted and pushed open the door with his shoulder. It scraped on the concrete floor, the top hinge having let go long before. He cringed at the screech of metal, looked about one last time to see if anyone had heard, then entered as rapidly as his tired body could muster, shoving the door closed behind him. The storm howled outside, the wind rattled the peeling walls and painted over windows of the abandoned warehouse, its hollow shell, emptied of anything of value by the owners, the remainder by looters, acted like an echo chamber, the din from the storm a dull roar Leroy found peaceful, much like the roar he heard in his ears on occasion. On cold rainy days like today, or long winter nights, the respite it provided was welcome, much more than a packed shelter with rules to be followed. Here, Leroy was answerable to himself, free to enjoy the peace and quiet this refuge provided from the city noise. Even on a stormy day like today, it was still quiet compared to the din that was New York, the noise from millions of inhabitants so close by, silenced. And that was why Leroy loved his little piece of paradise, a place where he didn't need to worry about thrill seeking kids beating him, or worse, hauled away by cops looking for an easy bust. This was his place and his alone. He took a belt from his bottle, placed it on the concrete floor and peeled off his clothes until he wore nothing but his stained underwear. Taking another swig, he looked around for the mattress he had rescued from a garbage bin a month ago and stashed here. It was gone.

  “It's over there in the corner.”

  Leroy looked and smiled. He stumbled toward it but stopped short when he saw a chair with someone sitting in it, their back toward him.

  “Who the hell is that?”

  “I don't know,” replied Leroy. He tiptoed his way around the chair. “It’s a chick!”

  “Are you sure?”

  Leroy double-checked. Skirt and tits. “Yup.”

  “Get rid of her.”

  Leroy eyed the woman, her head slumped forward on her chest. He glanced back at his clothes, decided against dressing before confronting the unwelcome guest, and stepped in front of her.

  “Hey, lady, this is my place,” he slurred. “You go find your own place!”

  “You tell her, Leroy!”

  Leroy took another swig. Emboldened, he continued, “Hey, Bitch! Get out of here!” He stumbled forward and tripped headlong into the woman, knocking her from the chair. He crashed to the floor and found himself lying beside her, face-to-face. He stared at her through his drunken stupor. Confused, he rubbed his eyes, trying to focus. His vision cleared for a moment, revealing a hole in her forehead, a small trail of dried blood running the length of her face. “Holy shit!” he yelled as he struggled to his feet and ran toward the entrance, his uncoordinated legs causing him to fall more than once.

  “Where’re you goin’?”

  Leroy stopped.

  “She ain't gonna hurt nobody now.”

  Leroy nodded. He approached the body again, picked up his dropped bottle, thankful it hadn’t shattered, and took a long drink. As quickly as his shaking hands would allow, he set about taking her watch, ring, bracelet and necklace. He saw a purse on the floor nearby and opened it. He removed the wallet, relieved it of cash and credit cards, then started back toward his clothes.

  “We hit the mother lode today!”

  He nodded as he thought of how much he'd be able to buy when he pawned his newly acquired goods. He leaned down to chec
k on his clothes when the door blew open and banged against the wall, the sound echoing through the empty warehouse. “Shhh!” he hissed, stumbling toward the entrance. He lifted the door, its single good hinge itself on its last legs, and shoved it back into place. It took several tries to get it to stay closed, but once successful, he returned to his clothes. Still wet. He looked at the bed, took another shot of courage and headed back. He lay down, facing away from the woman, and passed out.

  Officer Steve Scaramell watched the road as his Training Officer, Officer Brent Richards, poured coffee from a thermos into an insulated cup, tore open two sugar packets with his teeth and dumped them into the dark brew, then retrieved a swizzle stick from the dash and stirred the liquid. Finished, he tossed the stick back on the dash and looked at the road. His partner’s eyes where they should be, Scaramell returned to surveying the surroundings.

  The downpour had convinced them to do a quick warehouse district tour to kill some time and avoid having to get out from the shelter of their radio car. Scaramell, on the force less than a year, was relegated to the passenger seat, which was fine by him since he hadn’t learned to drive until the Academy and was still a little nervous behind the wheel. His partner, however, seemed able to drink coffee and gnaw at beef jerky while engaging in a high-speed pursuit. His laissez-faire approach to paperwork, protocol and driver safety, had at first shocked Scaramell, but in time he learned to ignore it. He was the “rook”, here to learn, and if lucky, correctly distinguish the good habits from the bad.