They called him John.
The soft tinkling bell of his four-legged friend could be heard in the other room, followed by the faint sound of lapping as Cookie took a drink from the water bowl he'd set out for the poodle.
“I hope you don't mind,” John murmured, slowly clicking the handcuffs into place. “But he was quite parched.”
John turned away, looking towards the front door. The bathroom door was wide open, giving him a perfect view of the small, cramped entry hall beyond. He glanced in the mirror next to him, pausing long enough to gently comb his gelled hair back into place with one gloved hand. He smiled at his reflection—it was a reflection worth smiling at after all. Beauty was a gift.
Intelligence a weapon.
Charisma a tool.
He reached out, patting the naked woman in the tub next to him. “It is truly your honor,” he murmured. “Most women should be so lucky.” He winked down at the unconscious form of his new charge, ogling her flesh for a moment, his eyebrows high on his forehead.
Once upon a time, he might have contented himself with other examinations of his prey. But his older age had robbed him of some of the more enjoyable sensations where his favorite pasttime was concerned.
Still, it hadn't taken everything.
He turned back to the mirror, opening the cabinet and scanning through the tampons, ibuprofen and mouth wash found there. He picked up a pink razor and examined the small hairs inside the blade.
“Well, well,” he said softly, turning the handle and eyeing it. He pictured the way his new prey would have held the thing, turning it over in her hand. He wondered how often she'd shaved. Wondered if she flossed every day.
Sometimes, he wished he'd had time to ask them.
But he found keeping his prey conscious for too much of it caused all manner of headaches. He liked watching them suffer, enjoyed the fear, but also, he knew he hadn't made it this far by leaving behind DNA evidence.
No... things were best left without a mess. A jolt of frustration... The last woman... Hilda. She'd been an anomaly. He should have been more careful. No matter—he would clean that mess up as soon as he had the chance.
He ducked, checking the cabinets beneath the sink, examining the bleach and the Windex bottle.
He liked to think like his victims. Like to inhabit their minds. Sometimes, he would spend hours with them, simply enjoying their lives while they lay in the tub, helpless. He enjoyed moving about their homes, peering into the most intimate portions of their lives while they couldn't do anything to stop him.
He remembered with the woman who pretended to be “Claudia” how he'd read chapters from her diary to her while sitting on the toilet, whispering them in her ear.
She'd been under the toxin's influence at the time, but he had to hope that part of her mind had heard him. Had feared him.
He smiled at the thought, glancing back towards where Rachelle rested in the tub. She now called herself Alexandra.
“That's a lie,” he murmured to her, wagging a gloved finger. “Tsk, tsk... Ought not call yourself things you aren't.”
He glanced back over his shoulder, towards the visible front door. His eyes moved down the metal surface towards the single tripwire he'd set across the entrance. He smiled at it, wondering if his premonitions would prove correct.
He'd always considered himself a student of human nature.
Dr. Beck... Ilse, she called herself.
Really, her name was Hilda.
But she was a smart one. He had to give her that much credit. Would she come tonight? Or was he just being overly hopeful?
As much as he enjoyed perusing through the lives of his prey... getting to know Hilda... Now that had been a true treat in and of itself.
She'd actually counseled two of his victims. The odds were incredible. One day, when he wrote his memoir, he'd make sure to include that as a spicy twist ending.
“My oh my, should we make it quick, tonight?” he whispered, sitting slowly on the edge of the tub. He daintily moved Rachelle's arm away from his pant leg, and watched her for a moment longer, taking in her lovely form. Her eyes were closed, her head lolled, resting against the porcelain, her bare feet brushing the drain.
“I'll be disappointed if she doesn't come tonight,” he murmured beneath his breath, stroking the woman's knuckles. As he did, the handcuffs he'd placed loosely on her wrists rattled against the tub. “I'm ready for it, you know? I've been ready.”
The woman didn't reply. Couldn't.
Instead, with a sigh, he reached down, adjusting the handcuffs and clicking them a bit tighter. Not too tight. That would ruin it. He couldn't let her bleed too soon.
This was the nasty business of killing with knives... Sometimes, it was inevitable, but other times, a knife was best used to threaten and subdue. More efficient mechanisms were available for finishing off the subjects.
This particular device was one of his own making. Two, quick, clean cuts like miniature guillotines. Though the cut didn't go so deep.
The cuffs were jagged on the inside, sharp as scalpels. He sharpened them himself. As they rested loosely now, they wouldn't cut, but when the cuffs were squeezed tight they gouged into the wrists.
He stared lovingly at where the woman's wrists rested in the tub.
He heard the faint, tinkling bell of his four-legged friend approaching down the hall. He frowned, glancing towards the door. "Stay," he commanded.
The sound of the bell stopped
He smiled, nodding to himself. He liked obedience. Compliance was an underrated virtue, especially in the weakest members of society.
That's what he was doing, after all. Nothing more than when he had tossed Cookie's brothers and sisters down the well. They had been sickly, weak, small. His poodle had been the strongest. The only one to survive. Survival could be rewarded. But not if it was stolen from the strong.
And that's what these women were trying to do. They thought, by escaping the alphas, the apex predators, that they could continue their lives in peace. They even changed their names, insulting the original authors of their fate.
It didn't sit well. Not at all.
"Cookie, bring it here," he said.
The little dog scampered across the ground, bell tinkling, a small toy in its mouth. A toy that he had attached to a long wire
He accepted the rubber chew toy, patting his dog fondly, and unhooking the length of wire, like an electrician's wire running through the center of the entryway. The wire was attached to the tripwire by the door. He threaded the cord through both cuffs, carefully, lest he preemptively bite into the woman's flesh. He circled the wire twice, then tied it off, clamping it with his gloved hand.
He stared, reached down, and gave the wire a little tug. The cuffs began to tighten.
He released the pressure, smiling, practically purring to himself.
"Good boy," he said, patting Cookie behind the ears.
He hoped she came tonight. When she did come, the door would open, the tripwire would go taught, and the cuffs would close. The razor-sharp metal inside the cuffs would slit the woman's wrists.
Perhaps it was a lot of trouble to make a point.
But on the other hand, it was just so much fun. She would be the one to kill his new prey. She would be at fault. There was something poetic about it. Something practically artistic
He smiled to himself, patting the woman in the tub one last time, before rising, dusting off his pants, adjusting his sweater, and approaching the front door.
Cookie scampered along next to him.
"Now we wait, my dear," he murmured.
He turned towards the single red can he'd brought with him. Plan B.
He always believed in a Plan B, and it had worked so well once before. He moved towards the red canister and kept his eyes on the front door, pulling a knife from his pocket, and twirling it between his fingers. She would have to come. She would have to.
And he was going to be ready for it.
He smiled, staring at the door, unblinking like some sort of reptile.
Just so much fun.