Diabolical (5 page)

Perry realized he'd just sighed. He truly loved what he did, ridding the world of degenerates. Making money was satisfying, and he certainly enjoyed the things money could buy, but nothing matched the thrill of the just kill. The Game was all there was. It gave him purpose.

His pulse thumped with excitement at the thought of plying his special trade again, but at the same time a familiar calm settled over him as he prepared the procaine solution and assembled the atomizer. He decided he would take extra care in selecting which implements to use tonight. This one would be special.

The cuts were always planned to inflict maximum pain. He wasn't about senseless acts of violence. No, the Game demanded more. This was punishment. Punishment for being an insult to decency, to normalcy. It required they all suffer, all he captured, and suffer they did. They suffered pain, they suffered humiliation. Suffered so many times, in so many ways. The humiliation came first. He would degrade them through sexual acts, rub their noses in their depravity by forcing them to face what they were, violating their bodies the way they violated the laws of nature. Over and over, repeating it for hours. He prided himself for having the confidence to do what it took. Many, he knew, would be unable to engage in such acts, would anguish over the implications. Not him. He knew he was not one of
them
. He was doing this for a greater cause, a greater good. Defiling them for a reason. The exhilaration he experienced was out of asserting his will, of demonstrating his sexual superiority. His ability to climax several times was simply an example of his exceptionalism, of the tremendous control he had over his own body and the limitless power of his will, not evidence of any deviant prurience or unnatural proclivities. No, he was definitely not one of them. He was a true man.

And there was work to be done.

Normally, he would reach for the large crescent-shaped amputation knife. Its curved blade allowed for the deepest cuts, and its angled tip was ideal for exploring pain centers beneath flaps of partially flayed skin. But he decided tonight he would use the antique European circumcision knife, a rare piece he'd acquired a few years earlier via private auction. Dating to the late eighteenth century, it had a carved bone grip (perforated to decrease weight), a gap bolster exposing the tang, a casehardened blade, and a beveled cutting edge. The triangular shaped cutting edge rounded out its unmistakably pre-Victorian look.

Perry stared at the antique instrument. There was something magical about a good knife from any period, ancient or modern. Something primal. The craftsmanship, the functionality, the ability of the blade to cleave, to separate a whole into constituent parts. A new, pristine blade was a joy to hold, but the historical ones, the specimens with a pedigree, those were practically narcotic. They were like holy relics. Inspirational artifacts. Instruments forged centuries earlier only to find their true purpose, finally, in his hands.

Highlights of what was to come danced through his thoughts. The begging, the screaming, the pleas to God. He took particular satisfaction in those. A sodomite hoping for divine intervention? Ha! There was no God, he would tell them. Order, civilization, even love—it was all a delusion. His great discovery, one he knew few before him had ever made, was that reality was his to shape. That existence was the Game. He was a player. The rest, perhaps every last one of them, were pawns.

The object of the Game was to impose your will on those pawns, and in doing so, create something wonderful: justice.

He removed the knife from its case, tilted the blade in various directions to feel its heft, its balance. He realized he was grinning. He couldn't help it. There was an unusual smugness to this Darin kid, mostly unspoken but still there, like with that crack about his house. A lack of respect that cried out for special treatment. And this instrument seemed wonderfully suited for the job. Poetically so.

The timekeeper in his head told him he'd left Darin alone long enough and that he needed to make an appearance. He stepped back from the compartment and gently closed the wardrobe, stopping it just short of catching. He pulled on a pair of loose pajama pants and slid the atomizer into the front pocket.

Emerging from the closet, he noticed a faint wobbling of light from the bathroom. It only took a second for him to realize Darin must have lit a candle.

How sweet, he thought. Annoying that a guest would be so presumptuous, act so at home, but still sweet. In a pathetic sort of way.

“Everything okay?” he said, padding into the room, voice raised a notch.

The sound of movement whispered from across the room, soles falling on the bathroom tile, then Darin came into view. He walked into the bedroom carrying a candle, holding it out in front of him.

Perry slid his hand into his pocket, fingers sliding over the nozzle of the atomizer, feeling the bulb.

“There's something I wanted to show—”

The words died in Perry's throat. His eyes locked onto the object in the young man's hands. It wasn't a candle, he realized. Well, it was, but it wasn't. It was a hand. A severed human hand, whitened and waxy. Darin held it palm out, digits extended toward the ceiling, a flame burning from the middle finger. It cast a glow that reversed the normal shadows of the young man's face.

The room seemed to tilt. Perry took a step to catch his balance. The floor stretched. He staggered to the bed, which now seemed a moving target. He pulled his hand from his pocket, dropping the atomizer, and stabbed his arms toward the mattress, stumbling. He slid to his knees against the edge, stared mutely at the person holding the flame.

His body felt heavy, all dead, rubbery weight, but his mind was like air, lighter than air, a balloon. His thoughts were just sounds, faint vibrations echoing away, voices disappearing over some distant cliff, too far off for him to hear what they were saying.

He stared at the flame until there was nothing to see, just the darkness behind his lids.

 

 

PERRYʹS EYES SNAPPED OPEN BEFORE HIS MIND REGISTERED any conscious thought. He blinked. A vague feeling of panic sizzled beneath his scalp. Too many realizations hit him at once, not allowing him to focus on any of them.

He was in his bed, on his back. He was naked. The room was dimly lighted. He was unable to move his arms or legs; at least, not able to move them much. There were bands of pressure around his wrists and ankles. The restraints were tight. There was a stinging pain in the palm of his right hand.

He wasn't alone.

The pieces were forming a whole. He'd been drugged somehow, knocked out.

And now he saw it was Darin in the room with him, not far from the foot of the bed. Standing at the mirror.

Stay calm,
he told himself.
You're smarter than everyone else, more aware. You're not a mere pawn. This was all part of the Game. Everything was part of the Game. It's just a new challenge. What's a Game without a challenge?

He swallowed. The dryness in his throat made it hurt.

He tried to make himself speak. It was harder than he expected.

“Darin,” he finally said. The weakness of his voice alarmed him. He swallowed again, said it louder.

The young man didn't respond, didn't acknowledge he'd even heard him.

“Darin, let's talk about this. I don't think you realize who . . .” He caught himself, thought carefully about what to say. “You don't want to do this.”

Calm, calm, calm. Focus. The Game had evolved, that's all. It was an unexpected twist, but really nothing more than a test of his skills. How to play the next move depended on what his opponent's motivations were. If this Darin kid were a serial killer, he could suggest a partnership. Money and resources to enjoy his hobby in style, satisfy his cravings in comfort. Maybe the kid was on his own mission, ridding the world of degenerates himself, and the Game was offering Perry a chance to morph into team play mode. Unlikely, but he couldn't rule it out. There was also the chance this was just a heavy-handed robbery. If so, he would have to convince Darin that he needed to physically retrieve his stash of money, persuade him that the restraints had to be removed. The prospect that concerned him the most, though, the one he knew would be the trickiest, was if the kid was some kind of vigilante, maybe someone related to one of those many degenerates Perry had taught a lesson. In that case, the play would have to be that he had the wrong man, pretend to understand why he was out for justice and offer to help. All compassion and empathy.

Regardless, all scenarios would end up with the kid dead. Very dead.

Yes, he told himself. All part of the Game.

And now his surprising adversary was backing away from the mirror, not even glancing down as he drew near the bed. Darin picked up a knife from the nightstand. Perry recognized it—long, utilitarian blade, contoured handle, stored on the top row of the magnetic strip, second from the left—just as Darin clamped down on his wrist, pulled the wrist strap down to expose flesh, and screwed the point of the knife into the meat of his palm. Perry let out a yelp. The kid set down the knife and dug his index and middle fingers across the wound, curling the fingertips with a scooping motion, turning them up toward the ceiling to minimize the dripping.

“You're right,” Darin said, heading back to the mirror. “I don't. But you know what they say, if you want something done right . . .”

For the first time, Perry realized Darin had been smearing his blood on the glass. Drawing something. It looked like a large, vertical oval. Not an oval, exactly. Longer. Thinner. More like a cunt.

“See? I knew it.” Perry swallowed again, trying to get some moisture into his mouth and throat. “Why don't we talk about this, Darin? Just you and me, okay. Sit down next to me and talk. I care. Let me show you how much I care, how I want to help.”

“Do you, really now? Want to help, I mean?”

“Yes,”
Perry said. “Yes, I do.”

“Then tell me where you normally dispose of the bodies. You must have a good location, close by. It might save me some time. Unless you want to deal with it later.”

Perry blinked. Almost two decades of play and he had never faced anything like this before. For the first time since he'd become aware of the Game, he was actually afraid of losing. Was that even possible?

“I have no idea what you mean. This is all some big mistake.”

“If you could hear yourself through these ears, you might realize how ridiculous you sound and just shut the hell up.”

“Listen, you have to believe me, I—”

“I know what you are. It's why I'm here. I was admiring your knife collection. Nice. That particularly large one will come in handy. The memento wall next to them was a bit clichéd, but I guess there's something to be said for honoring traditions.”

“Please, you
have
to listen—”

“Shhhh . . . just stop. I need you to be quiet now. I'll use the hand again, if I have to.”

The hand. Perry's gaze jumped to the coffee table. He remembered the candle, remembered how it was the last thing he saw, remembered the way the flame seared an image into his head, crowding out everything else.

“Is that how you drugged me?”

“That's one way to look at it. Now, stop talking.”

“Look . . . whatever it is, whatever reason you're doing this, we can come to an arrangement. I have money. Lots of money.”

“I have a good idea of how much you're worth.”

“Then you know I can wire money anywhere. Just let me get to my computer. Thousands. Hundreds of thousands.”

Darin's lips pulled tight, spreading into an ironic grin that Perry didn't like. “That won't be necessary.”

“You said yourself you don't want to do this. Don't be a killer.”

“Tell me something, since you won't
shut up
: how many?”

“I don't—”

“Men. Boys.
Victims
. How many did you rape and torture and dump into a hole somewhere?”

“Listen to me! You've got the wrong guy—”

“Your first one was in 1998. He was seventeen. Turning tricks for money to feed his habit. His picture didn't make your wall. That part came later. Ritual evolution.”

Perry said nothing. A vigilante. Worst of all possibilities.

“You don't even know, do you? You've lost count. Don't get me wrong, I'm not judging. Just illustrating why you've already been judged.”

Darin retrieved the knife and circled to the foot of the bed. Perry's legs were tied down, leather cuffs around the ankles. His feet were pale, tinged with blue from veins webbed just beneath the surface, his toenails thick and yellowing. Darin stabbed a short, deep cut into the top of each foot midway down, near where the cuneiform bone met the metatarsal. He scraped his forefingers into one of the cuts and went back to the mirror, tracing an outer line around the curve on one side. He returned, repeating the act with blood from the other foot.

Perry grimaced and grunted each time, but didn't cry out. His mind raced to think of a new strategy. Nothing came to him.

He watched as Darin made another approach and leaned over him from the side. The steel of the knife flashed once in the dim light, then Perry felt it stab him between two ribs. Not deep, but enough to make his body seize up, force him to gasp.

This was something he had trouble grasping. In all his years of playing, he never expected to meet someone else who seemed aware, someone like him, another player. He never contemplated the words now pictured flashing on the screen. Game Over.

Fingertips dripping once again in blood, Darin stood at the mirror and made another mark, one Perry couldn't quite discern. Then he spoke in a hushed tone, barely audible.