Repercussions
A sexual predator with a taste for young girls discovers he had not been all that careful in the choosing of his earlier victims.
R for graphic depictions of bodily harm.
***
It was a rather pleasant day, he reflected. The sun shining through the leaf canopy cast a dappling of shadows on the ground and amidst the sound of birdsong he could easily hear a small, fast flowing river nearby. It was a day made even more pleasant with the addition of his latest captive, the one he was currently holding tight against his side as he scoured the area.
So far no one had followed them and regardless of the quiet neighbourhood he couldn't take any chances that someone could've seen his plates, despite being fake, when he grabbed the girl. Stashed in a compartment hidden under a panel in the boot were several more bogus plates and already he had changed them after parking. He wasn't one for gambling, especially if a losing outcome could mean a short haul in prison, since his "preferences" were frowned upon by even the hardiest and nastiest of inmates. He didn't find that being pinned down and gutted like a pig was to his taste and would rather be out enjoying fine summer mornings.
Right now, he felt complacent. He was confident no one saw or heard anything and with enough threatening, his girls wouldn't dare say a word about what happened. Of course, he could always kill them but the last several said nothing. A couple did report him, or rather they tried to. They never got a good look at him and he was careful as far as physical evidence went. No one found him nor was he even suspected of having done anything wrong.
He was surprised at his latest plaything; she barely said a word nor did she try to struggle and escape. Most tried to do something about their plight, but this one was quiet and subservient. Looking at her, he guessed she was probably around twelve or thirteen. He mused that he was getting better at picking the young ones, since he'd spent weeks of stalking near homes and schools, the latter the best way to find the right age group. His first was sixteen, a girl he randomly pulled off the street one night, one who was physically undeveloped and he had mistaken her for a twelve year old. To top it off she was the one who tried to take control of the situation and had some level of experience. Disappointed, he ditched her several miles on the outskirts and went looking for a more suitable victim. Now he was careful to make sure his targets were within his preferred age bracket.
To break the ice he asked her name. She didn't respond so he made a small threat to cut her with his knife if she chose to stay quiet. This time she responded.
"Chantelle."
It was a small, timid voice, the sound of someone who was not only lacking confidence and self esteem but probably suffered from abuse at home. Her clothing was basic, none of the new trendy and expensive garments most girls her age wore. If abuse, low confidence and self esteem was all she had in her life then she would be an easy victim. It was always a pain to deal with someone who thought they had everything; they were always cocky and arrogant and never understood their true place in the world.
"So, Chantelle. How old are you?"
"Twelve."
"Really," he replied in fake surprise. "I thought you were older. You certainly look it." He referred to her obvious physical development. If he hadn't been watching and following her to and from school he would have taken her for an older teenager. It was a little treat for him to find a young girl in a young body that had undergone an early puberty. He could look for it in the older teenagers but most lacked innocence and naivety.
Chantelle didn't say anything after that, her head twitching from side to side as she looked everywhere around her except up at him. His threat to cut out her eyes if she dared look at him was working.
He then caught movement out of the corner of his eye. An animal, he thought. Nothing to be concerned about; there were always foxes and the odd dog roaming around. Yet he couldn't ignore the knot in his stomach. He glanced over his shoulder to ascertain that he and his prey weren't being tracked. In the shadowy dappling cast by the canopy he couldn't see anything, animal or otherwise. He was getting nervous and high strung. As always he felt tense after taking a victim. The movement of light and shadow on the ground and trees looked like something was moving about.
His prey then stumbled, dragging him down. Chantelle was starting to become exhausted much to his disappointment. If only she could walk another ten minutes as he wasn't in any mood to carry her.
"C'mon," he growled, pulling her off the ground. "No time to rest."
He heard a twig snap off his right. Glancing over his should he saw movement which was not caused by shadows on the ground. Someone was trailing them.
"Change of plan," he said, wrenching her towards the river, away from the dark shape moving towards them. The river in question was fast flowing but shallow and on the other side lay heavy underbrush and dense scrub, easy enough to hide in. He looked behind again; the shape wasn't making any effort to conceal itself as it continued after them, keeping a steady distance and his stalker was clearly human, dressed in black which easily blended in with the shadows. Long dark hair was tied back in a tight ponytail, eyes hidden by black sunglasses that contrasted sharply against a thin, pale face. The body shape was recognisably female and she wore a backpack slung across her back and he realised she was easily keeping pace. Someone must have seen what happened, he thought. She probably saw me taking this victim and followed. The thought quickly faded; no one had been behind him when he drove to his secluded spot. Another theory came to light, one that filled him with a cold dread.
She didn't follow him. She had been waiting for him.
Another quick check to confirm her position and found her not only still pacing them, but closing the distance.
If she really was waiting for me then she knows. He tried to clear his mind. Maybe she was just in the area and saw me with Chantelle and thought something was up.
It was that idea that seemed more reasonable. He'd just have to find himself another area to take his prey after dispatching his unwanted shadow.
He reached the river and waded across, dragging Chantelle through cold, rushing water that reached as high as her waist. Her exhaustion combined with heavy, waterlogged clothing threatened to slow him down. From behind he heard heavy splashing as his pursuer forded the tributary. Only several more feet and he could lose her in the dense undergrowth. Would lose her, he thought. All the trouble of stalking and selecting a perfect victim would be for nothing if he were caught.
He turned to check again. She was now close enough that by the time he reached the riverbank she would already be three-quarters of the way. His pursuer was determined enough to catch him that he started to feel mildly sorry for her. She came all the way out here to find me only to die, he thought. No matter. It won't happen again.
He struggled to pull Chantelle onto the pebbled shore, throwing her down. By now he wasn't thinking about the luck he had finding the right girl. He started hating her for being so heavy and useless and while he rarely cut his victims he figured he'd have to start doing it more often. Then again, it wasn't everyday he'd find himself being stalked but his anger at having to hurriedly drag a dead weight across a river hadn't subsided so he turned to face his unwanted shadow. He really didn't want to take it out on Chantelle. By now he didn't care if she saw his face. Her attention was drawn to the eight-inch smooth bladed knife he had removed from a sheath strapped to his calf. By way of a threat he waggled it at her.
"Don't even think of running because I really don't want to chase you. If you make me, though, I will have cut up that pretty face of yours and that will only draw attention." He chuckled, remembering the last girl he cut up. A nice big scar, he thought, right across her face. He also recalled the attention it drew. Leaving her with a nasty face wound made it difficult to hide and under pressure the girl eventually told. She had also caught a glimpse of his face and while her description was vague it was enough to force him into hiding for a while. Now he only wished he just killed her but couldn't bring himself to do so. Last thing he wanted was to have a taste for killing and he reasoned that it wouldn't feel as good as leaving his victims alive and emotionally scarred.
You can't stalk dead bodies anyway.
His stalker reached the riverbank several feet away from him. She slung the bag off her back and carried it as she walked toward him, seemingly unafraid. No matter, he reflected. It's not like she'll be able to break my neck.
Then she did something that he wasn't prepared for.
He saw her reach inside her backpack and he tensed, waiting for her to draw her weapon when he found himself at a disadvantage.
Knives, he always thought, were the best weapons. They enabled him to hurt his quarry while still being in their personal space, most were easily intimidated by a blade and it could inflict various degrees of pain and injury without killing.
Guns, on the other hand, only killed. They were violent and destructive, an inappropriate weapon for him. On the other hand, someone who had the right skills could use it in a way that it wouldn't kill but at the same time it could mostly deliver one nasty, bloody degree of injury. No grey area, no room for quiet intimidation.
The gunshot was muffled by a plastic Coke bottle, and in a spray of scarlet the bullet struck him in the upper left chest, exiting at an angle from his back, inches from the spine. Stunned, the knife dropped from his hand as blood ran hot and thick down his chest and back. Pain hadn't set in yet; damaged nerves took a few seconds to respond. When it did hit it was at first a gradual swell which erupted in a flood of white-hot pain. Shocked and disorientated he crumpled to his knees, jarring another wave of pain before he collapsed chest first onto the pebbled shoreline. Through the grey haze of his lingering consciousness he saw her moving towards him to pick up the knife, throwing it into the river. He then heard her voice talking to Chantelle who had been sitting not three feet away and lightly spattered with blood.
"Get the fuck out of here." Her murmured tone had an unusually deep timbre which made her demand more menacing. "Get out of here and go home. It is your decision to tell the police or just forget about it. I don't care either way."
Wordlessly, Chantelle picked herself up and made her to the water, pausing to wash blood off her face. She stopped near his prone but still living body to deliver a swift kick to his ribs before heading off towards the nearest bridge. Pain once again washed over him and for a few moments he lost consciousness.
A hard slap across the face roused him and immediately anger was the first emotion he felt. Twisting slowly he saw her kneeling in front of him. She had already taken off her glasses, showing intense hazel eyes staring at him with fierce loathing.
"Did you know," she started to say, "that one can live on average from three to fifteen minutes after puncturing a lung? Sometimes it's more depending on the extent of the wound and if one receives medical aid in time. A bullet wound to the chest, on the other hand, will shorten one's life considerably." She sighed. "Now I wish I had shot you in the stomach instead. You'd have lived for a few agonising days."
He tried to speak, managing only to gurgle, with frothy blood forming at the corners of his mouth.
"Don't even try to talk. There's nothing you can say that will change what you did." She pointed to a blemish on her face that reached from her right cheek to the bridge of her nose. "Remember this?"
It took him a few seconds to realise what she was pointing to. It had been a few years but he recognised the knife cut he'd left on one of his previous victims, one who had put up the most aggressive fight.
She saw the expression on his face. "You do remember. Well, that's a relief. I really didn't want to repeat my story. You must have thought you got away with it, what with you hiding away after the police sketch of your face appeared on the news." He heard her rummaging through her bag, heard the muffled clinking of metal. She removed an oilskin satchel. It was well worn, scuffed in a few places and dyed a deep burgundy.
"It took me years to come back, to want to hunt you down. Mind you, it wasn't for a lack of trying or nerve. I learned over time that you have more than one hunting ground but only one specific spot where you take them. So I figured I'd try here, where you frequently visit rather than hang around different schools and neighbourhoods." She then stood up and pushed her foot against his side, forcing him onto his back.
"I could leave you on your stomach but I can't see if you're still alive. Lying on your back, though, will make it harder for you to breathe." She drew a large hunting knife into his line of sight.
"Do you know what will kill you when you're suffering from a punctured lung?" She waited impatiently for an answer. When it wasn't forthcoming she thudded the heel of a boot into his shoulder near the bullet wound before crouching down.
"Normally, you don't always drown in your own blood but rather the blood leaking into the chest cavity, as well as escaping air, will put so much pressure on your heart that it will simply stop."
She brought the knife down into his chest before twisting the blade, accompanied by a series of sickening cracks. Blood gushed from the hole she left after withdrawing the knife. Frothy blood soon followed along with wet, sucking noises as he struggled to breathe. He was beyond feeling pain. So oppressive his macabre injuries were that they barely seemed to hurt at all.
"I now truly regret not shooting you in the gut." Her lip curled up in a sadistic sneer. " It would have made for so much fun."
He watched, helpless and detached as his one of his previous victims from years before, with a maniacal glint in her eyes, bore the hunting knife down into his abdomen, puncturing first then splitting as she pushed the knife towards his chest.
"One of my favourite subjects at school was biology," she casually remarked, using the knife to bring up a length of small intestine, pale, shiny and slick with blood. "Because of you I missed an important test that morning. I made up for it though and it seemed to me that the subject came in handy. That, and my love for true-crime books. It gave me an idea of how to kill you in the worst possible way."
She tore the piece of slimy greyish gut in half before settling in to remove the rest.
"You might want to make yourself comfortable," she said to him as he writhed weakly on the blood-stained riverside, gurgling streams of scarlet from both the mouth and the hole in his chest as she started cutting up a portion of his liver. "This could probably take a while."
-end
E.W
2010-2013
