SERIAL UNCUT (20 page)

Her wrists and ankles were comfortably but
securely bound with nylon restraints. Her mouth wasn't gagged. From
her vantage point, she could only see the back of the driver's head
and occasionally the side of his face by the cherry glow of his
cigarette. He was smooth-shaven, his hair was dark, and he smelled
of a subtle, spicy cologne.

It occurred to her that he didn't know she
was awake, but the thought wasn't two seconds old when she caught
his eyes in the rearview mirror. They registered her consciousness,
turned back to the road.

They drove on. An endless stream of rodents
darted across the road ahead and a thought kept needling her--at
some point, he was going to stop the car and do whatever he was
driving her out in the desert to do.

"
Have you urinated on my seat?" She
thought she detected the faintest accent.

"
No."

"
You tell me if you have to urinate.
I'll stop the car."

"
Okay. Where are you--"

"
No talking. Unless you have to
urinate."

"
I just--"

"
You want your mouth taped? You have a
cold. That would make breathing difficult."

Devlin was the only thing she'd ever prayed
for and that was years ago, but as she watched the passing
sagebrush and cactus through the deeply tinted windows, she pleaded
with God again.

Now the Escalade was slowing. It came to a
stop. He turned off the engine and stepped outside and shut the
door. Her door opened. He stood watching her. He was very handsome,
with flawless, brown skin (save for an indentation in the bridge of
his nose), liquid blue eyes, and black hair greased back from his
face. His pretty teeth seemed to gleam in the night. Rachael's
chest heaved against the strap of webbing.

He said, "Calm down, Rachael." Her name
sounded like a foreign word on his lips. He took out a syringe from
his black leather jacket and uncapped the needle.

"
What is that?" she asked.

"
You have nice veins." He ducked into
the Escalade and turned her arm over. When the needle entered, she
gasped.

"
Please listen. If this is some kind
of ransom thing--"

"
No, no. You've already been
purchased. In fact, right now, there isn't a safer place in the
world for you to be than in my possession."

A gang of coyotes erupted in demonic howls
somewhere out in that empty dark and Rachael thought they sounded
like a woman burning alive, and she began to scream until the drug
took her.

The f
ollowing is an excerpt of Shaken by J.A. Konrath, coming in
2010. If you're interested in reading a longer excerpt, there's one
in the ebook Planter's Punch by J.A. Konrath, co-written by Tom
Schreck.

1989, June 23

This guy isn't a
killer,
Dalton thinks.
He's a
butcher.

Dalton isn't repulsed by the spectacle, or
even slightly disturbed. He stays detached and professional, even
as he snaps a picture of Brotsky tearing at the prostitute's body
with some kind of three-pronged garden tool.

There's a lot of blood.

Dalton wonders if he should have brought
color film. But there's something classic, something pure, about
shooting in black and white. It makes real life even more
realistic.

Dalton opens the f-stop on the lens,
adjusting for the setting sun. He's standing in the backyard of
Brotsky's house, and his subject has been gracious enough to leave
the blinds open. From his spot on the lawn, Dalton has a clear view
into Brotsky's living room, where the carnage is taking place.
Though Brotsky has a high fence and plenty of foliage on his
property, he's still taking a big risk. There are neighbors on
either side, and the back gate leading to the alley is unlocked.
Anyone could walk by.

It's not a smart way to conduct a
murder.

Dalton has watched Brotsky kill two hookers
in this fashion, and surely there have been others. Yet the Chicago
Police Department hasn't come knocking on Brotsky's door yet.
Brotsky has been incredibly lucky so far.

But luck runs out.

At least Brotsky has the
sense to put a tarp down,
Dalton thinks.

He snaps another photo. Brotsky's naked
barrel chest is slick with gore, and the look on his unshaven face
is somewhere between frenzy and ecstasy as he works the garden
tool. He's not a tall man, but he's thick, with big muscles under a
layer of hard fat. Brotsky sweats a lot, and his bald head gives
off a glare which Dalton offsets by using a filter on his lens.

Brotsky sets down the garden tool, and picks
up a cleaver.

Yeah, this guy is nuts.

Truth told, Dalton has done worse to people,
at least as far as suffering goes. If the price is right, Dalton
will drag someone's death out for hours, or even days. But Dalton
gets no pleasure from the task. Killing is simply his business.

Brotsky is killing to meet baser
needs. Sex. Power. Blood lust.
Hunger,
Dalton muses, taking a shot of Brotsky
with his mouth full of something moist.

If Brotsky sticks to his MO, he'll dismember
the girl, wrap up her parts in plastic bags, and then take her
severed head into the shower with him. When Brotsky returns, he'll
be squeaky clean, and the head will be gone. Then he'll load the
bags into his car and haul them to the dump site.

Dalton guesses it will be another eleven
minutes. He waits patiently, taking occasional snapshots, musing
about what Brotsky does with the heads. Dalton isn't bothered by
the heat or the humidity, even though it's close to ninety degrees
and he's wearing a suit and tie. Unlike Brotsky, Dalton doesn't
sweat. Dalton has pores. He just never feels the need to use
them.

Exactly eleven minutes and nine seconds
later, Brotsky walks out his back door, dressed in shorts, sandals,
and a wrinkled blue Hawaiian shirt. He's lugging several black
plastic garbage bags. The man is painfully unaware, and doesn't
even bother looking around. He walks right past Dalton, who is
hiding behind the girth of an ancient oak tree, gun in hand.

The hitman falls into step behind the
butcher, his soft-soled shoes silent on the walkway. He trails
Brotsky, close as a shadow, for several steps and then jams the
Ruger against the fat man's back. Brotsky stops cold.

"
This is a gun, Victor Brotsky. Try to
run and I'll fire. The bullet will blow your heart out the front of
your chest. Neither of us want that to happen. Do you
understand?"

"
Yes," Brotsky says. "Can I put down
these bags? They're heavy."

Brotsky doesn't seem frightened, or even
surprised. Dalton is impressed. Perhaps the man is more of a pro
than Dalton guessed.

"
No. We're going to walk, slowly, out
to the alley. My car is parked there. You're going to put the
pieces of the hooker in the trunk."

Brotsky does as he's told. Dalton's black
1989 El Dorado Roadster is parked alongside Brotsky's garage. The
car isn't as anonymous as Dalton would prefer, but he needs to keep
up appearances. The wiseguys he works for like Caddys, and driving
the latest model somewhat compensates for the fact that Dalton
isn't Italian.

"
Trunk is open. Put the bags inside,
and take out the red folder."

Brotsky hefts the bags into the trunk, and
they land with a solid thump. The alley smells like garbage, and
the summer heat makes the odor cling. Dalton moves the gun from the
man's back to his neck.

"
Take the folder," Dalton
says.

The light from the trunk is enough. Brotsky
opens the folder, begins to page through several 8x10 photos of his
two previous victims. He lingers on one where he's grinning,
holding up a severed leg. It's Dalton's personal favorite. Black
and white really is the only way to go.

"
I'm a teacher," Brotsky says. He has
the barest trace of a Russian accent. "I don't have much
money."

Dalton allows himself a small grin. He likes
how Brotsky thinks. Maybe this will work out after all.

"
I don't want to blackmail you,"
Dalton says. "My employer is a very important Chicago
businessman."

Brotsky sighs. "Let me guess. I slaughtered
one of his whores, and now you're going to teach me a lesson."

"
Wrong again, Victor Brotsky. See the
lunch box in the corner of the trunk? Open it up."

Brotsky follows instructions. The box is
filled with several stacks of twenty dollar bills. Three thousand
dollars total.

"
What is this?" Brotsky
asks.

"
Consider it a retainer," Dalton says.
"My employer wants to hire you."

"
Hire me for what?"

"
To do what you're doing for free."
Dalton leans forward, whispers in Brotsky's plump, hairy ear. "He
wants you to kill some prostitutes."

Brotsky turns around slowly, and his lips
part in a smile. His breath is meaty, and he has a tiny bit of
hooker caught in his teeth.

"
This employer of yours," Brotsky
says. "I think I'm going to like working for him."

2010, August 10

The rope secured my wrists behind my back
and snaked a figure eight pattern through my arms up to my elbows.
Houdini with a hacksaw wouldn't have been able to get free. The
best I could do was flex and wiggle my fingers to keep my
circulation going.

My legs were similarly secured, the braided
nylon line cris-crossing from my ankles to my knees, pinching my
skin so tight I wished I'd worn pantyhose. And I hate
pantyhose.

I was lying on my side, the concrete
floor cool against my cheek and ear, the only light a sliver that
came through a crack at the bottom of the far wall. A hard rubber
ball had been crammed into my mouth. I was unable to dislodge it--a
strap around my head held it in place. I probed the curved surface
and winced when my tongue met with little indentations.
Teeth marks.
This ball gag had been
used many times before.

My sense of time was sketchy, but I guessed
I'd been awake for about fifteen minutes. The first few were spent
struggling against the ropes, trying to scream for help around the
gag. The bindings were escape-proof, and my ankle rope secured me
to a large concrete block, making it impossible for me to roll
away. The ball gag didn't allow for more than a low moan, and after
a minute or two I began to choke on my own saliva, my jaw wedged
open too wide for me to swallow. I had to adjust my head so the
spit ran out the corner of my mouth.

Based on the hollow echoes from my sounds, I
sensed I was in a small, empty garage. Some machine--perhaps an air
conditioner or dehumidifier--hummed tunelessly in the background. I
smelled bleach, which wasn't a good sign. Under the bleach I
smelled traces of copper, human waste, and rotten meat, which was
even worse.

Fighting panic and losing, I made myself
focus on how I got here, how this happened. My memory was fuzzy. A
hit on the head? A drug? I wasn't sure. I had no recollection of
anything leading up to this.

But from the smells, and my past, I could
assume whoever abducted me was planning on killing me.

Definitely not the way I wanted to end my
new career.

1989, August 15

I didn't become a cop to do things like
this.

The red vehicle pulled up and honked
at me. It was one of those strange combinations of a car and a
truck; I think they were called SUVs. This one said
Isuzu Trooper
on the fender. I found
them to be too big and blocky, especially for an urban setting like
Chicago. And with gas prices up to almost $1.20 a gallon, I doubted
the trend would catch on.

The night was hot, humid as hell, and I was
sweating even though I was nearly naked. My candy apple red
lipstick kept smearing in the heat, forcing me to reapply it. I had
the whole block to myself, having chased the other girls away
earlier. I'd done them a favor; action was molasses slow. Plus, the
city was eight days into a garbage strike, and the stink coming
from the alley was a force of nature.

"
Your call, Jackie," my earpiece said.
My partner, Officer Harry McGlade, waited in a vintage Mustang
parked up the street.

"
Aren't you bored with this game yet?"
I said into the microphone. It was hidden in my Madonna push-up
bustier; an item that should have been worn under a top, not as a
top.
Jacqueline Streng, working
girl.
I reached inside the cup and readjusted my boob.
The transmitter was the size of a pack of cigarettes, but harder
and heavier, the sharp corners not meant to be wedged tight against
delicate female anatomy. It hurt. The wires trailed up my bra
strap, and to the earpiece, hidden by my
Fredrick's of Hollywood
blonde Medusa
wig.

"
I'll be bored when I'm actually ahead
a few bucks," Harry said. "Go on. Guess."

I squinted at the guy behind the wheel. The
street was dark, but he had his interior light on while he looked
around for something. Possibly his wallet. He was Caucasian, late
forties, balding, thick glasses. White collar, probably married
with kids.

"
BJ," I said to Harry.

"
Naw. I'm guessing something
pervy."

"
He looks like a member of the
PTA."

"
The clean-cut guys are always the
perverts."

"
You said the weird-looking guys are
always the perverts."