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Authors: Hazel Hunter
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silently, taking his time, and the fear that swept through her only mounted higher the longer he delayed. An acrid taste crept up the back of her throat and she tried to swallow to keep from throwing up but her mouth was completely–
Suddenly, there was pressure in her left palm and the reading began. Isabelle saw herself scream and writhe, laying on the metal cot. Although her mind railed against the horror of it, another sensation quickly intruded–pleasure. Cruel delight surged into her and she knew that Prentiss–that was his real name–had truly enjoyed seeing her suffer. The images flew past: her body in the trunk, checking his body makeup in the mirror, her and Mac in the elevator, buying an air gun, shopping in the adult shop, buying handcuffs, and then Angela. Isabelle sucked in a breath as Angela died.
Prentiss had been disappointed because the suffering had ended.
Angela , thought Isabelle. At least it was over for her.
Suddenly, Prentiss was on the sand looking up at a ferris wheel. Angela shrieked as the stethoscope seared into her hand and Isabelle’s arm jerked in response. The images began to flow faster. Esme now, barely conscious as the tip of the blade pressed past her skin. The utter delight that flooded through Prentiss. There was another victim, in a dark bathroom. She was screaming. It echoed from the tiles and glass. Isabelle’s throat burned with Prentiss’s screams of joy. One victim after another, their pain, his euphoria, until Isabelle felt the room spin. But suddenly, there she was–Prentiss’s mother.
The woman lunged at him with a small, kitchen knife and Isabelle felt it land in Prentiss’s leg. She heard cartilage rip, felt the thudding vibration as the blade sank to the hilt, and then the pain–excruciating, unending.
“ Mother! ” she wailed, the sound impossibly high, at the top of her lungs, as the sensation of ripping flesh traveled up her thigh. “ My leg! ”
“Yes!” Prentiss yelled behind her. “Yes!”
• • • • •
Mac skid to a stop and spun toward the sound.
There could be no mistaking it.
“ Isabelle ,” he muttered.
• • • • •
Prentiss barely heard the pounding of feet over Isabelle’s wail. But at the end of the long corridor, an agent with a gun appeared. Prentiss immediately ducked and, when his fingers stopped pressing into Isabelle’s palm, her scream died away.
“Step back,” the agent yelled and Prentiss could see that he had his gun drawn and his run had slowed to a walk. Prentiss nearly jumped and ran at the sight but now he froze, transfixed. The gun was pointed at him but, luckily , he’d been behind Isabelle, who slumped forward in the chair such that Prentiss had to cower. “I said, step back ,” the agent yelled, still advancing.
Prentiss quickly swiveled his head this way and that but there were only empty cells, the corridor in front of him, and a dead end behind.
He was trapped.
But as he crouched behind the chair and looked down at Isabelle’s wrists, handcuffed to the chair, he couldn’t help but think of the the most intense, exciting, and beautiful moment of his life. He looked up at the agent who held his gun with both hands, out in front, slowly advancing.
Wait. I recognize him. This has to be Mac.
Prentiss squinted at him around Isabelle’s shoulder.
He can’t shoot because she’s in the way.
“Step back from her,” Mac yelled.
Wait, wait, wait, Prentiss thought, calming down. Who is the actor here?
Slowly, Prentiss moved his hand to the holster, unsnapped it, and withdrew his weapon. As he stood, he pointed it at Isabelle.
“Drop your gun,” he ordered, his voice firm and resonant.
Mac came to a quick stop, some twenty feet away. Prentiss smiled at the fast reaction and realized his mustache was slipping from the sweat pouring from him. He pressed it back into place, all the while keeping his eyes on Mac, waiting to see what he would do. Prentiss
Suddenly, there was pressure in her left palm and the reading began. Isabelle saw herself scream and writhe, laying on the metal cot. Although her mind railed against the horror of it, another sensation quickly intruded–pleasure. Cruel delight surged into her and she knew that Prentiss–that was his real name–had truly enjoyed seeing her suffer. The images flew past: her body in the trunk, checking his body makeup in the mirror, her and Mac in the elevator, buying an air gun, shopping in the adult shop, buying handcuffs, and then Angela. Isabelle sucked in a breath as Angela died.
Prentiss had been disappointed because the suffering had ended.
Angela , thought Isabelle. At least it was over for her.
Suddenly, Prentiss was on the sand looking up at a ferris wheel. Angela shrieked as the stethoscope seared into her hand and Isabelle’s arm jerked in response. The images began to flow faster. Esme now, barely conscious as the tip of the blade pressed past her skin. The utter delight that flooded through Prentiss. There was another victim, in a dark bathroom. She was screaming. It echoed from the tiles and glass. Isabelle’s throat burned with Prentiss’s screams of joy. One victim after another, their pain, his euphoria, until Isabelle felt the room spin. But suddenly, there she was–Prentiss’s mother.
The woman lunged at him with a small, kitchen knife and Isabelle felt it land in Prentiss’s leg. She heard cartilage rip, felt the thudding vibration as the blade sank to the hilt, and then the pain–excruciating, unending.
“ Mother! ” she wailed, the sound impossibly high, at the top of her lungs, as the sensation of ripping flesh traveled up her thigh. “ My leg! ”
“Yes!” Prentiss yelled behind her. “Yes!”
• • • • •
Mac skid to a stop and spun toward the sound.
There could be no mistaking it.
“ Isabelle ,” he muttered.
• • • • •
Prentiss barely heard the pounding of feet over Isabelle’s wail. But at the end of the long corridor, an agent with a gun appeared. Prentiss immediately ducked and, when his fingers stopped pressing into Isabelle’s palm, her scream died away.
“Step back,” the agent yelled and Prentiss could see that he had his gun drawn and his run had slowed to a walk. Prentiss nearly jumped and ran at the sight but now he froze, transfixed. The gun was pointed at him but, luckily , he’d been behind Isabelle, who slumped forward in the chair such that Prentiss had to cower. “I said, step back ,” the agent yelled, still advancing.
Prentiss quickly swiveled his head this way and that but there were only empty cells, the corridor in front of him, and a dead end behind.
He was trapped.
But as he crouched behind the chair and looked down at Isabelle’s wrists, handcuffed to the chair, he couldn’t help but think of the the most intense, exciting, and beautiful moment of his life. He looked up at the agent who held his gun with both hands, out in front, slowly advancing.
Wait. I recognize him. This has to be Mac.
Prentiss squinted at him around Isabelle’s shoulder.
He can’t shoot because she’s in the way.
“Step back from her,” Mac yelled.
Wait, wait, wait, Prentiss thought, calming down. Who is the actor here?
Slowly, Prentiss moved his hand to the holster, unsnapped it, and withdrew his weapon. As he stood, he pointed it at Isabelle.
“Drop your gun,” he ordered, his voice firm and resonant.
Mac came to a quick stop, some twenty feet away. Prentiss smiled at the fast reaction and realized his mustache was slipping from the sweat pouring from him. He pressed it back into place, all the while keeping his eyes on Mac, waiting to see what he would do. Prentiss
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