Читать книгу Cruel - Jacob Stone - Страница 19

Chapter 11

Van Nuys, October 8, 2001

Cynthia Leary lay naked on her back, trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, with a pair of socks stuffed in her mouth to keep her from yelling for help. He sat down next to her and touched her cheek and felt the coolness of the skin. His hand moved down her body, and she shuddered when he let his fingers linger on her left nipple. It was rock hard. Could she possibly be aroused right now? He had to find out the answer to that! He reached down and felt that she was as dry as sandpaper. No, it wasn’t sexual arousal that made her nipples so hard, but fear. That was good. He so much preferred fear.

He didn’t want to get any blood on his clothing so he stood up and removed his shirt and pants. Being a gentleman, he asked her if she’d mind if he took off his underwear, and since she didn’t tell him not to, he stripped off his briefs. It was no surprise that his penis stood erect and was far harder than her nipples. More than that, it was throbbing. You couldn’t blame him for being excited. It had been excruciating waiting all these years to begin the Nightmare Man’s new killing spree. When he took the first victim five days ago he was like a teenage boy having sex for the first time, rushing through it so fast that he barely had time to enjoy the experience. The same wasn’t going to be true tonight. He would use a slow hand with Cynthia and make sure to squeeze every drop of pain out of her. Just thinking of that brought him close to climaxing. He excused himself and used her bathroom to take care of the matter at hand, flushing away any potential DNA evidence.

When he returned to her cramped bedroom, he apologized for his absence and then emptied the contents of the gym bag he had brought, lining up each item on the bed alongside her. He made sure to put the metal cage holding the rat right next to her head. The rat inside was oh-so-hungry. Angry, also. He felt his heart flutter as he saw how liquid with fear her eyes had become.

Cynthia Leary. Twenty-seven. A hopeful actress working as a waitress. Her small one-bedroom Van Nuys apartment was what a Realtor might generously call cozy, at least if the Realtor was a big enough liar. The bedroom was smaller than most jail cells and could barely fit her single bed. Well, that would just make tonight all that more intimate.

There was enough ambient light in the room to see her long, skinny body. He doubted she’d had a good meal in years, and not just so she could pay rent for this dump, but more because she hoped to be famous someday. All that scrimping and saving and starving herself to chase after her dream, and this was what it came down to. How terribly sad.

He bent over so he could whisper in her ear.

“You’ll be famous,” he promised her. “Everybody will soon be talking about you. They’ll be showing your picture on TV and in the newspapers. After they find you, of course.”

He had to add that last caveat. It had been five days since he took this spree’s first victim, and still no mention about it on the news. Eventually that would change, but it had annoyed him to no end. He was so looking forward to seeing the fear that these murders would be causing. That was half the fun, after all.

He picked up the needle-nose pliers he’d brought, climbed on top of her so that he straddled her, and took his time pulling off her fingernails. He made sure to work even slower later, and he made a conscious effort to liberally use the smelling salts he’d brought.

This was the way it was meant to be. After all these years, he finally discovered his true self.

Finally. Finally.