Never Coming Home



  Never Coming Home

  By: A.R. Wise

  A Lincoln Pierce Mystery

  Copyright 2015

  Cover by A.R. Wise

  Original photo sourced from iStockphoto.com

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this book with another person for free, that would be fine. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Arthur

  He liked to make them wait. It gave them time to get scared.

  He kept her in a locked room, tied to a four poster bed with a frame made of aluminum rods. She was lying on a single mattress fitted with a heavily bleached sheet. The walls of her prison were grey, with brown splotches on the wall that might be old blood. A single incandescent bulb hung from the ceiling, its abrasive white light seeming to vibrate in the nearly featureless space.

  “Hello?” she called out while looking up at the camera in the corner. “Anyone there?”

  She was cold. Her lips had taken on a blue tint, and Arthur wondered if she was shivering from fear or just the chill.

  She was older than most of the others. Blonde and thin, with large blue eyes that might’ve been pretty except for how they bulged, a victim of how gaunt she was. Her teeth were too large for her mouth, like a corpse with receding lips. When she smiled, he cringed. He hated this one.

  Arthur sat at his desk in the unfinished cellar, in front of three computer monitors, and watched the camera’s feed. The gentle hum of electronics surrounded him as the soft glow of the screens provided his only light.

  The prisoner grew restless. She struggled on the bed and yelled out curses as she pulled at the ropes holding her down. “If you’re going to do something, then do it already.”

  ‘That’s good,’ he thought as he watched her. Soon he could get started. He was already wearing his surgeon’s mask and apron. The mask pressed tightly against his salt-and-pepper beard.

  He anticipated the look of fear in her eyes when he finally opened the door and revealed himself, the scalpel in hand. He took out two plastic gloves from the box on his desk and saw that he was running low. He slipped the gloves on, snapping them at his wrists as he pulled them taut.

  She kept screaming, and started to writhe so much that the rope chaffed her wrists. He wanted to give her more time to struggle, but the wait was excruciating. He hoped she would bloody her wrists. That would heighten his pleasure.

  He perused the internet as he waited, but then he moused over to a folder labeled ‘Betty’ that was on one of his external hard drives. He let the cursor linger over the file, intent on leaving it closed. The contents were forbidden. A self-imposed ban to protect himself from his darkest side. His heart raced at the prospect of opening the file and exploring the contents. He wanted to see the pictures and articles detailing the crime that’d come to dominate his sleepless nights for nearly a decade.

  The anniversary was coming up. Just a week away. Surely that warranted a peek.

  No. He wouldn’t open it.

  The girl screamed so loud that the speakers on his computer crackled. The camera feed took up one of his monitors, and he watched the prostitute as she writhed in her bindings. He watched her wrists, hoping to see a trickle of blood, but there wasn’t any. She wasn’t scared enough yet. She wasn’t trying hard enough to get free.

  He turned down the volume on his speakers and minimized the camera feed. Now her cries were muted by the soundproof wall behind him as he stared intently at the file named, ‘Betty.’

  He double-clicked the file, and the computer asked for a password. His finger trembled as it hovered over the first letter of the code. He frequently reviewed the material contained within, but never before meeting with one of the girls. That was too dangerous. He knew it was a mistake, but today he did it anyway. It felt like he was honoring the girl whose death had started it all.

  He opened Betty’s file.

  Seconds later, Betty Kline’s face stared out at him. It was from her yearbook, and seeing it caused his heart to flutter and his muscles to tighten.

  He didn’t need to read the articles about the crime, or examine the police account, or peruse the evidence. Just the sight of Betty’s smiling visage brought it all back. He remembered everything about the day she died.

  His prisoner slammed herself up and down on the bed, breaking his momentary daze. The aluminum posts clattered on the concrete, which finally earned his attention. He stood back up, retrieved the scalpel, and then walked over to the door that led to her prison.

  He tried to forget Betty’s eyes, but her picture was burned into his memory. He wanted to go stare at her again. That cherubic face, with her lush, auburn hair tied back in a ponytail, and her dimpled cheeks on full display as she grinned. Those baby blue eyes. He wanted to touch her again, or smell her hair, or kiss her, or wrap his hands around her neck.

  The meth addict tied to the bed would have to suffice.

  “What the hell?” asked the prostitute when he entered, dressed in his surgeon costume. She looked more annoyed than afraid.

  He showed her the scalpel, which inspired her to scream out for help before he closed the door behind him. “This is going to hurt,” he said in a purposefully rough and gravelly voice.

  She cursed at him and twisted on the bed, fighting to get free just like he’d told her to, but she wasn’t a gifted actress. He knew she was only in it for the money, like most of the girls that came before her, but usually he was able to look past that fact and enjoy himself. Not tonight.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about Betty.

  “I’m sorry,” he said as his posture deflated. “I can’t do this. Not now. I’m sorry.”

  She stopped struggling and looked at him with a weary expression as she asked, “You sure? I’m not giving back the money.”

  Her wrists still weren’t bleeding. They were barely red. She wasn’t scared at all.

  “That’s fine.” He walked over and started to undo the ropes that held her down. “Go ahead and put your blindfold on and I’ll drive you back to where I picked you up.”

  “You think you could drop me off at the corner of Broadway and Pine instead? I got some things I need to do out that way.” She rubbed her wrists. The forced fear she’d exhibited moments earlier had evaporated as she stretched and then rubbed her weary muscles.

  “No,” he said as he moved over to untie her feet. She was in a t-shirt and panties, with her thin, bruised legs exposed. Her flesh was covered in goose bumps that caused her stubble to poke out like pins that scratched him as his arm brushed against her. “I’ll drop you off in the same place I picked you up.”

  “Fine.” She was annoyed with him, and pulled her foot away from his grasp after he’d untied her. She picked up her pants and wormed her way into them before grabbing the black blindfold he’d given her when he picked her up.

  Their meeting had been arranged online. They didn’t know each other’s real names. She didn’t know where he lived, or anything about him other than that he had sadistic desires. He’d instructed her to be afraid when he ‘raped’ her, and that there would be choking involved. This wasn’t the sort of transaction that could be made with regular prostitutes, and required him to find willing participants in the deep web, a part of the internet most people live their entire lives without ever knowing anything about.

  The anonymous drug addict in his basement was standing in the room blindfolded, waiting for him to lead her outside. “Let’s go,” she said, her tone weary and carrying what he assumed was an accusatory edge. She hated him. She was in control.

  He looked at her neck, and his right hand twitched.

  “Are we going?”

  He shushed h
er, and then moved close enough that their bodies touched. She was startled by his approach, and flinched before asking, “Did you change your mind or something?”

  He shushed her again, and then moved in for a kiss. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine there was someone else here with him, but her dry, chapped lips destroyed the illusion. He was disappointed, but decided to continue. There was no stopping this now.

  He thought of Betty.

  He put his hands on her throat, which she’d expected. She charged extra for choking, and he’d already paid. She squirmed and put her hands on his wrists before asking, “Should I fight?”

  He didn’t answer before squeezing. He could feel her pulse through the gloves, but this was tantamount to sex with a condom, and he was hungry for more. He stopped, and she staggered backward, smiling as she said, “That was nice.”

  That was the worst thing she could’ve done. It wasn’t supposed to be nice for her. That’s not what this was about. He pulled off the gloves and threw them to the corner. He needed to feel her skin against his hands as she earned her money. Next, he reached over and took off her blindfold. He wanted her to see this coming.

  His attack was sudden and violent, causing his victim to fall backward onto the bed. The flimsy aluminum frame jostled and then failed. The front legs bent, and the mattress fell forward so that they were at an angle as he straddled her. He gripped her throat hard enough to cause her to involuntarily struggle. She squirmed and thrashed, but then forced herself to calm down because this is what he’d paid her for.

  Just a little pain.

  A couple minutes of pain bought for a few hundred dollars. These transactions happen far more frequently than the average person would ever guess.

  It can take anywhere from five to twenty seconds for a person to fall unconscious from lack of blood to the brain. He knew where to place his hands to restrict blood flow through the carotid arteries. He’d done this so many times that he’d become an expert.

  Most of the women he paid to choke assumed he would do it during sex, but that wasn’t what he enjoyed. He liked to cause them to pass out, and then he would masturbate over them before they regained consciousness.

  This time would be different.

  This time he wouldn’t let go.

  The prostitute lost consciousness, but he kept his strong hands on her throat, restricting blood flow to her brain. Each second felt orgasmic as he kept his grip tight. He could feel her arteries pulse as her body desperately tried to force blood past his hands. Would he kill her? It’d been years since he’d succumbed to his demons – years since he let one die. Every second that passed brought her closer to death and him closer to a release he’d tried to pretend he didn’t crave.

  He wasn’t tamed like they thought, but a wild beast feigning normalcy, craving release.

  She was unconscious now, and this was the moment where he had to decide whether or not to give in. If he released her, then she would wake up shortly after blood returned to her brain. She would be groggy, but unharmed, and he could drive her back to the alley where he’d picked her up. They could go their separate ways, their transaction complete.

  Or he could finish the deed.

  He kept his hands over the arteries, restricting blood flow, and then gently rubbed his thumbs over her windpipe. If he wanted to kill her, there was nothing she could do to stop him. Her life was in his hands.

  He felt like a child at the edge of a pool, staring into the deep end and daring himself to jump. All he had to do was act.

  His heart thundered as he stared down at her. This life in his hands, waiting for his judgment.

  He pressed his thumbs harder against her windpipe, and a guttural groan escaped the woman as he applied more pressure. Her visage changed as her mouth gaped wider and her tongue stuck out, rigid as he squeezed. Then came the ‘pop’ as he crushed her windpipe. She began to shake. The point of no return had come and gone, and now all that was left to do was finish the deed.

  It wouldn’t be quick. Strangling a person never is. It’s a long, laborious project in which the offender must keep constant pressure to prevent oxygen from entering the victim. He also needed to keep the arteries from supplying blood to her brain, to keep her from waking up and fighting back. Her body lurched beneath him, but she never regained consciousness, and soon her lips turned blue as her eyes became bloodshot.

  Next came the most satisfying part, as he felt the pulse in her neck ease, and then stop. He kept his hands wrapped around her throat for longer than needed before finally releasing her. He stood up, frightened by what he’d done, but undeniably aroused.

  He backed away from the corpse, and out of the room. He looked behind him at the computer screen where Betty Kline’s smiling portrait stared back, the details about the crime that ended her life sitting there waiting for him to enjoy again.

  He trembled as he sat back down at the computer, excited and fulfilled. He felt no sadness for succumbing to the demons that he’d kept hidden for so long. Instead, he began to smile as he stared at the dead whore on his basement floor.

  He’d forgotten how good this felt.

  Arthur walked back over to her, took off his pants, and pleasured himself while staring into the prostitute’s bloodshot eyes.