Read Online The Mad and the MacAbre by Jeff Strand - Free Book Online

his
fingers through her hair. She was absolutely beautiful.
    Killing her seemed like...a crime.
    What a bizarre way to feel.
    He'd been given the gift of a lifetime
(admittedly, a high-risk gift that could easily land him in prison)
and he just didn't really want to kill her. He sort of wished he'd
asked her to go get coffee instead.
    The whole situation reminded him of when
he'd gone to a buffet restaurant, and he'd eaten until he was full
and didn't want to eat anymore. As he was walking toward the exit,
he'd noticed that they put out strawberry cheesecake. He didn't
much feel like eating dessert after his huge meal, but he knew that
he loved strawberry cheesecake and would have pounced upon the
opportunity to have some if he weren't so full, and he'd felt
compelled to eat it anyway.
    Would killing the girl make him just as sick
to his stomach as the cheesecake?
    Maybe this wasn't a good example. He could
go for some strawberry cheesecake right now, actually. The point
was that dragging the young woman into his house was a decision
based more on what he'd wanted in the past than what he wanted
now.
    If only he could undo it.
    "You can't change what's in the past," he
said. He'd be fine. Quite honestly, he was probably just still
riding high on the adrenaline from playing with Kutter all
afternoon--in the morning, he'd be absolutely delighted to have a
beautiful college student to slice.
    Yeah. That was it. Also, he was just
nervous. One cut with the razor and he'd probably be energized with
the desire to kill.
    Maybe he'd use the drill instead.
    No, no, the razor. Keep it simple.
    He selected his smallest razor from the
shelf, and then held it above the unconscious girl's stomach. He'd
awaken her with smelling salts before he began the process, but he
should figure out his plan of action first. "Where to cut...where
to cut...?"
    He dropped the razor in surprise as the
phone rang.
    He quickly picked it back up--it had broken
the skin on her stomach a bit--and set it on the metal table as he
hurried upstairs. Kutter followed him, and he told the dog to shush
up as he opened the door to the basement and hurried through the
kitchen into the living room to answer.
    "Hello?"
    "Hi there! I'm calling about the dog you
found."
     

- 8 -
    Charlie suddenly felt as if he'd been kicked
in the chest. "What?"
    "I heard from one of your neighbors, Darlene
Clifton, that you found a Boston terrier about a month ago. I think
it's mine."
    Before Charlie could lie, Kutter let out a
loud bark.
    "Hey, I recognize that guy!" said the man on
the other end. "I'm right in your area. Mind if I stop over?"
    "I'm...heading out."
    "I'm literally like a minute from your
place. I'm passing Darlene's house right now."
    Charlie wasn't sure which one Darlene was.
Probably the old lady on the corner. He supposed it didn't
matter.
    "Okay," he said.
    "Great, thanks!"
    Charlie hurried into the kitchen and closed
the basement door. The soundproofing really wasn't designed for
situations where somebody was sitting right in his living room, so
he'd just have to pray that the girl didn't regain consciousness
while he had a visitor.
    What was he going to do? He couldn't let the
man take Kutter away.
    Maybe he had the wrong dog. Maybe he'd just
show up, take one look at Kutter, sigh, and say "That's not my dog.
Sorry to have bothered you, sir. Have a pleasant evening."
    Or maybe Charlie could just not answer the
door. What was the man going to do, break a window and steal
Kutter? He couldn't force Charlie to give him up, could he? Charlie
wished he'd researched the state law on this matter.
    He scooped Kutter up in his arms and let his
dog lick his face. "Don't worry," Charlie said, "I won't let him
take you away." He held Kutter until he heard the car pull into his
driveway, and then he put Kutter in his bedroom and closed the
door. A moment later, the doorbell rang. Charlie paced around the
living room, trying to figure out what to do, until the doorbell
rang