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Her muscles begin to tense up as the ketamine does its job. She’s stiff. And she’s scared. Even though her eyes are glazed, she knows. She feels.
That’s what I want. It’s what I need.
I grab her legs and drag her onto the filthy floor, where she belongs. Flat on her back, like a trapped cockroach about to be crushed. Then I begin the second part of the ritual. I cut off her clothes, piece by piece, throwing them aside. I’m determined not to allow myself to experience that profane surge of pleasure. I spread her legs wide, tying one ankle to a radiator, and the other to a water pipe. She’s delicately formed, her body firm, her curves gently rounded.
Like Artemis.
The very thought sends me into a tirade. How dare I compare a whore like this to my pure and precious Artemis? It must be the morphine. Nothing else would do this to me.
I unzip my fly. I never take off my clothes, not with any of them. That would demean me. I flinch as I touch myself. The pain in my groin is still bad, even with the morphine. As always, I extract a condom from my pocket—another absolute necessity. She’s a harborer of germs, of disease, of everything evil.
I can’t get the image of Artemis out of my head. It’s wrong, so wrong. I hate myself for it. But I can’t make it go away. Not until I make this whore go away.
I rip open the condom wrapper. I can’t harden my body enough to slide the damn thing on. It’s the injury. No, it’s the demons. They know I’m thinking impure thoughts about the purest of women. That terrifies and infuriates me. I rub myself fiercely. But to no avail. The pain in my testicles is too severe. And the demons are cursing me, threatening me, mocking me.
I go wild. I shove the condom over my flaccid penis. It’s her fault. Hers and Tyche’s. Two biao zhis.
I force my weight on top of hers, crushing her into the concrete floor with all my might. I lift up only to guide, shove, cram myself into her. It won’t happen. I begin pounding myself against her, desperate to penetrate. I can’t. I can’t.
Sweat is pouring off of me. Pain lances through me with each unsuccessful thrust. Her blood is on my sweatshirt. I don’t care. I’m gripping her hair, pulling at it to gain leverage. It won’t work. Nothing will work.
I launch myself off of her, seize my combat knife.
I’ll conquer her one way or another, give the demons what they demand.
The first slices are deep, cutting through muscle and tissue, severing blood vessels and puncturing organs. The feeling is euphoric, obliterating the rage, replacing it with a hunger for more.
Excitement and power surge through me—the kind I get when I violate them. I’m shaking as I respond. I cut her again, and again, and again—each cut deeper, more frenzied. Time and place cease to exist. I’m blind to everything except the escalating pleasure taking possession of my senses. Building. Building.
I stifle a shout as my body shudders, culmination shaking me to the core. I close my eyes, a prisoner to the feeling, my body lurching repeatedly as I fill the condom that hangs loosely from my aching member.
My muscles go slack, and I roll onto my back, letting my eyes close and my head relax, loll to one side. I suck air into my lungs.
I open my eyes and see her, or what’s left of her. Bloody. Mutilated. Butchered into nonexistence.
I spit into her mangled face. Then I find the coin I brought, and place it beside her, in the stickiness of her spilled blood.
The pain in my wrist, my nose, my testicles—none of it matters.
The exhilaration is far greater. Because now I understand what the demons have been throbbing for.
It’s the purest form of pleasure. Savoring evil, rather than festering over its temptation.
A true victory. One I must revel in. And learn from.
Hunterdon County, New Jersey
4:15 P.M.
As it turned out, Sloane and Derek had another four-way conference call, this time with FBI SSA William Mann and former SSA Lawrence Clark. The two men had worked closely together at the BAU for fifteen years before Larry’s retirement, so they were pleased to be doing so again. They listened carefully to the details Sloane and Derek provided.
“How are we handling this?” Bill asked afterward in his customary blunt style. “If you want the BAU on board in an official capacity, then this phone call and request for our help has to technically be initiated either by Derek in his SA capacity, or by Sergeant Erwin at Midtown North. But if you want to skip the red tape and let Larry handle this alone, as an independent consultant, that’s fine. You’ll get the best there is and any of you can request his help.”
“With one exception,” Larry taunted good-naturedly. “Now that I’m a consultant, I actually get paid. You know, real money, not like the Bureau salaries.”
At his end of the phone, Bill chuckled.
“We’d really like you both on board,” Sloane answered. “That’s why I reached out to you, and Derek reached out to Bill. This case is getting broader in scope. We could use both your expertise and the resources of the Bureau. Larry, the Trumans have offered to pay whatever fee you quote them, plus all your expenses. Their only stipulation is that you make this top priority.”
