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Prolific Writer
Join Date: Feb 2008
Location: Just west of the Cascade Mountains....couple miles from the pacific ocean puget sound
Gender: Male
Posts: 272
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"Demon trap" Chapter Three 1838 words.. very violent content
Seventy five yards over the hill from the intersection, forty five yards from the jungle beast, Lil P continued south. Walking her sexy walk, daydreaming of pleasures to come. The last thing she wanted was to attract a “john”. Unfortunately, her beauty combined with her gait betrayed her. A mid-sized Camry sedan, containing a middle aged
male as unremarkable as his conveyance, whipped into the lot of the Soap-N-Suds Laundromat, stopping thirty feet in front of Lil P. The occupant was already anticipating the price for something so divine. Lil P had other ideas and somewhere she had to be. She crossed in front of the vehicle acting as if it did not exist. The sharp, quick burp of the
Toyotas’ two-tone horn collapsed the house of cards she was constructing. She looked, wincing toward the car, already seeing the passenger window descending smoothly.
“Hey there, baby girl” mid-aged called. “What’s up with you tonight?” trying to be hip, but not succeeding.
“Yo dude. Sorry, but I’m not what you think. K?” she came back.
“So how much are we talking here?” he persisted.
“Look, man, no offense, but I’m not a date, okay? So you know, roll on…awh-ite?”
Lil P never burned a bridge if she didn’t have to. Besides, she never knew who might be another Davis.
Like so many who get a closer look at Regina, he was instantly obsessed. He wasn’t done yet.
“Hey, come on girl. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
To show he meant it, he fanned out four one hundred dollar bills.
“So whaddayasay?” he pleaded.
Charles William Bratcher, a middle-aged, middle school principal from Goodlettsville, TN. He made a fatal mistake while lowering the window. He had pressed both the passenger and drivers side windows down. Suddenly he felt a quick, sharp burning sensation just beneath his belt line, above the left thigh. As he was turning his head toward the open window, a curious thought swiftly crossed his consciousness, 'Isn’t the appendix on the right side?'
Inside of a second, Charles received another surprise. A handsome, smiling young man was looking him in the eyes.
“Hey, look sir. We don’t want any trouble, okay?” Zac said pleasantly. He raised up looking over the roof of the car at Lil P. He smiled and winked at her diverting her attention, while he swiped an eleven-inch, surgically sharp
blade across the 'marks' shoulder, cleaning off the dark almost black, fresh blood.
Zac leaned back down, smiling at Mr. Bratcher, who still hadn’t registered what was happening. Charles wasn’t quite himself. He felt lightheaded as he met the gaze of the smiling young man. He was aware that the eyes weren’t smiling. Contempt was the only idea Mr. Bratcher could muster to describe the eyes looking back at him. Had he not
been bleeding to death, his senses might have screamed EVIL! To his brain.
In a low, sinister voice, Zac said “If you leave right now, this very second, you might live. Now put the car in drive and go back that way.” Zac gestured over his left shoulder toward the traffic light, just beyond line-of-sight over thehill.
Understanding came over the dying mans’ face. He thought the sinking, empty feeling he was experiencing was fear. It was not fear. The school principal was in shock, his blood pressure plummeting. He punched the gas and turned quickly onto Dickerson Pike. He was aware now of a lukewarm flood between his legs. A rhythmic pressure
inside his pants. Just over a third volume of his blood was now outside his punctured body. One hundred yards up the street, the cream colored Camry slowly passed through a red light veered right, went over the curb and hit the corner of White Castle Hamburgers. No damage. The cars airbag ignored the love tap the car had given the building. Inside the Camry, Charles William Bratcher stared lifelessly at the dashboard. What he never realized, even as the last breath was escaping his lungs, was simple…the street kills the weak...and the stupid.
Lil P was staring dumbfounded at her rescuer. He was tall, good looking and had sent the trick away with just a few words. She began turning on the charm, “Well, thank you stranger” smiling and adding extra southern drawl. Zac
smiled back “Not a problem, in fact, it was my pleasure.” He replied in as harmless a tone as he possessed.
Lil P closed the gap between them, intentionally looking him up and down in an exaggerated way. Then she bit her lip. Although he revealed nothing, it was all Zac could do to contain his revulsion.
“I haven’t seen you around here before. Are you new to Music City?” she asked.
“ Actually, yeah I am.”
“Hey look, it’s late and I gotta run, but I’ll be around tomorrow. Want to hook up? You know, maybe I can show you some hot spots. Whaddaya say?”
Zac pondered for a moment. He thought for a brief second of severing her head. He held back. He looked at her
coolly and said, “you know somehow I feel we might be seeing each other sooner than you think, Gina.” He then casually touched his forehead in an informal, friendly salute, turned on his heel and walked away. Lil P was a little confused. Had she told him her name? She had been up a long time and was coming down hard. She was never put at a disadvantage. Even more infuriating, had she been dismissed? Regina Anne Clark did not scare easily, yet, now her neck was tingling as if an electric current was moving through
her. Ginas’ instincts served her well here on the track. She knew to trust them.
Zac was seething. 'Why had he done that?' He thougth. He had shown his hand, veiled as it was. Zac knew things. What he knew now… his prey had been alerted. No matter how miniscule the revelation, he knew better. His anger with himself consumed his actions for the next two hours. What would interest a psychologist was the fact that Zac, having just committed murder, would never think about that particular act again. Bratcher was simply in his way. Ole Charlie was not part of the plan. Zac dispatched him as a reflex action. He had automatically assessed the situation as he crept up on the unsuspecting pair. He was so fast and fluid, Lil P never saw his knife. Zac had spent many hours on his blade, sharpening it , compulsively over and over. He struck so fast and accurately, Bratcher scarcely felt a thing. Zac took no pleasure, no emotion at all. The man was between himself and the prey. The prey would bring that bliss he needed. To lose his prey was not an option.
At 3:42 a.m. Lil P turned up Lucy Avenue toward the alley. Before her encounter with the school principal and Zac, she had been reveling in the whole idea of several hours with Kera. Now, all her alarms were going off. Her highly perceptive instincts told her to get the hell out of Dodge. Unfortunately, her craving for instant gratification was stronger. Still, she remained preoccupied by her earlier encounter. Something…something was off. But, what?
Detective Sergeant John Atkins had been asleep on the couch in the common room at downtown Metro when he got the call. Atkins wasn’t lax or a slacker. He just hadn’t been home since 7:45 a.m. Monday . He was waiting for the crime scene investigators to identify the young girl. She had been found in a stolen car on Kramden street. Her murder had been over kill. A straight-forward cut throat. The wound took out both carotid arteries. It was very clean and very deep. Jaw to jaw. A clump of the girls brown hair had been literally yanked from her head. Apparently. Someone had reached in the passenger side window, grabbed a handful of hair, then with great force had pulled her head back and down so violently that here neck was broken, completely. There had been no need to slit the pretty teenagers throat. So, Atkins was sleeping when the call came. Forty seven year old Charlie Bratcher was ready to tell a dead mans tale. Six calls came in at 3:33 a.m. to 911 dispatcher. The black and whites were on the scene in just over a minute, in three minutes Metro P.D. were four cars deep. The scene was secure. Detective Atkins caught the call. Atkins was five foot nine inches, one hundred seventy five pounds of devoted cop. He was brash and crass, but his squinting eyes could soak up and recall every detail of a homicide scene. After a once over of the Bratcher murder
scene, Atkins stored every detail he could immediately see in the macro world. He ordered three of the uniforms to secure witnesses and gather their contact information. Two others were to help the scene investigators with processing evidence. Then he began his own grid inspection. Atkins didn’t care about anything now, but what the perp may have left behind, besides the obvious dead body. At 4:30 a.m. a slight dew began forming , moisture doesn’t stick to oil like oil left from a murderers’ hands. Atkins bent to look at the Toyota. Fortuitously, Bratcher was vain about his car . It was clean. What was of interest to Atkins was the palm prints on the roof of the car. Atkins whistled, a bald man with surgical gloves and bifocals on the end of his nose, raised his eyes from the passenger floor and looked up at the detective, over his spectacles and through the drivers window. Atkins raised his eyebrows twice in quick succession and cast his eyes toward the ceiling. The CSI guy backed out of the car and rose to meet Atkins at the roof.
“I got some partials and three good palms, Carl”. Atkins said while pointing out the prints.
“Yep, looks like you have something. I’ll go get the dryeez . We need to get these before they tow it to the shop”.
Atkins continued his inspection, while Carl went after the print gear. Already, Atkins had noticed some similarities to the Jane Doe case. Both victims were killed in cars with air, yet, the window was down. Of course, it was late, the temperature had gone down a lot, still, something was similar. He couldn’t put his finger on it. The young girl had been found around 4 p.m. Saturday. It was almost 5 a.m. Thursday morning. Four days and some change. He felt that the murderer must still be in the area, also, whoever did this liked to work up close. Wet work was the term and very clean. Atkins’ expression was one of intense concentration. He felt a chill run down his spine. These murders were connected. He had no evidence, no connections. Atkins just felt it. He wrote himself a
mental reminder to call Ric Lay. Ric would want to know.
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 " Imagine if all you ever did was kill for God. What kind of being would you be? An Angel sword dripping, your wings always dipped in blood.....Imagine."
Last edited by Gate : 04-24-2008 at 03:11 AM.
Reason: format
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