front of 3481 Colonial One Place. John Logan lived here, and Butch planned to wait, ensconced in his comfy leather seat, for him to come home.
He imagined what it would be like to kill the man who’d killed his brother. He hoped he had the control to keep from slitting Logan’s throat right away. Torturing him first, that would be the most satisfying. Over several days would be even better. But he’d need to prepare for that first. Get a storage unit. Those were the best for what he did. Secluded after closing time and usually in the middle of nowhere because no one wanted an ugly storage place in their backyard.
Easy to clean up afterward, too. If the floor got stained, all you had to do was say you spilled some red paint. Oops. The setup and even the aftermath were easy: No one questioned what you brought in or what you hauled out. As long as you hauled it out before the smell set in, everything was copacetic, peripatetic and chic. That’s why he preferred the climate-controlled kind. Took things longer to rot.
So it was settled. He’d hold off on outright killing the son of a bitch in favor of torture. His brother would prefer that anyway. He couldn’t participate in the act, so Butch would draw it out to make it extra special when he shared the grisly details with him on the phone.
Maybe it’d even be a nice change of pace. He’d never tortured a man. He normally practiced his art on women. Something about the way they screamed and begged made the act all the more sweet. They bargained, too. He imagined a man like John Logan would threaten to kill and maim. Give a man a gun, and he thought he was fucking God, charged with deciding who lives and who dies.
But a woman, ah, yes, a woman had something to trade. He loved that look they got when he let them think they had a choice in offering themselves to him. Power zinged through him every time with that first heavenward thrust, because he knew that when he was done, after he geysered into them like a high-pressure fire hose, the edge would be taken off and the real fun could begin.
Swallowing hard, Butch carefully steered his brain away from such distracting thoughts. Now was not the time to get off track. He had vengeance to wield.
As soon as John Logan arrived home, he’d get started.
And if he got really lucky, John Logan would have a girlfriend.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A re you okay?” Alex glanced sideways as Charlie steered the small SUV into the beach traffic and couldn’t think of a thing to say. Fatigue burned in her bones, in her brain.
“It gets better,” Charlie said. “I know that seems impossible now.”
Alex had to laugh. Either that or weep, and once she started to laugh, she couldn’t stop. Soon, she was laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe. It really was hysterical when you thought about it. Empathic postcognition. Touch a friend and get thrust into their worst nightmare in high-definition, 3-D, surround sound. But wait, there’s more! Afterward, their aches and pains, their bruises, are yours. Maybe even their gaping wounds. And the psychological torment that followed? All yours, too. Scars on the inside. Scars on the outside. The deal of the century.
She buried her face in her hands, and as the laughter subsided, the weeping started, because, oh, God, she couldn’t bear all the pain that other people carried with them, couldn’t imagine closing her eyes to sleep tonight only to relive having her wrists bound and a psychopath stalking her or a hard hand squeezing her throat while a monster ripped away her clothes.
She’d know now. She’d know what tortured the people she cared about. Know their pain, their torment, their fears. She’d know what they hid behind sunny smiles and warm laughter. The worst thing that had ever happened to them would happen to her. She’d live every detail.
She couldn’t live like this. She . . . just . . . couldn’t.
Slowly, she became aware of the hand on her back. Stroking and soothing.
The
He imagined what it would be like to kill the man who’d killed his brother. He hoped he had the control to keep from slitting Logan’s throat right away. Torturing him first, that would be the most satisfying. Over several days would be even better. But he’d need to prepare for that first. Get a storage unit. Those were the best for what he did. Secluded after closing time and usually in the middle of nowhere because no one wanted an ugly storage place in their backyard.
Easy to clean up afterward, too. If the floor got stained, all you had to do was say you spilled some red paint. Oops. The setup and even the aftermath were easy: No one questioned what you brought in or what you hauled out. As long as you hauled it out before the smell set in, everything was copacetic, peripatetic and chic. That’s why he preferred the climate-controlled kind. Took things longer to rot.
So it was settled. He’d hold off on outright killing the son of a bitch in favor of torture. His brother would prefer that anyway. He couldn’t participate in the act, so Butch would draw it out to make it extra special when he shared the grisly details with him on the phone.
Maybe it’d even be a nice change of pace. He’d never tortured a man. He normally practiced his art on women. Something about the way they screamed and begged made the act all the more sweet. They bargained, too. He imagined a man like John Logan would threaten to kill and maim. Give a man a gun, and he thought he was fucking God, charged with deciding who lives and who dies.
But a woman, ah, yes, a woman had something to trade. He loved that look they got when he let them think they had a choice in offering themselves to him. Power zinged through him every time with that first heavenward thrust, because he knew that when he was done, after he geysered into them like a high-pressure fire hose, the edge would be taken off and the real fun could begin.
Swallowing hard, Butch carefully steered his brain away from such distracting thoughts. Now was not the time to get off track. He had vengeance to wield.
As soon as John Logan arrived home, he’d get started.
And if he got really lucky, John Logan would have a girlfriend.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A re you okay?” Alex glanced sideways as Charlie steered the small SUV into the beach traffic and couldn’t think of a thing to say. Fatigue burned in her bones, in her brain.
“It gets better,” Charlie said. “I know that seems impossible now.”
Alex had to laugh. Either that or weep, and once she started to laugh, she couldn’t stop. Soon, she was laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe. It really was hysterical when you thought about it. Empathic postcognition. Touch a friend and get thrust into their worst nightmare in high-definition, 3-D, surround sound. But wait, there’s more! Afterward, their aches and pains, their bruises, are yours. Maybe even their gaping wounds. And the psychological torment that followed? All yours, too. Scars on the inside. Scars on the outside. The deal of the century.
She buried her face in her hands, and as the laughter subsided, the weeping started, because, oh, God, she couldn’t bear all the pain that other people carried with them, couldn’t imagine closing her eyes to sleep tonight only to relive having her wrists bound and a psychopath stalking her or a hard hand squeezing her throat while a monster ripped away her clothes.
She’d know now. She’d know what tortured the people she cared about. Know their pain, their torment, their fears. She’d know what they hid behind sunny smiles and warm laughter. The worst thing that had ever happened to them would happen to her. She’d live every detail.
She couldn’t live like this. She . . . just . . . couldn’t.
Slowly, she became aware of the hand on her back. Stroking and soothing.
The
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