Fear No Evil

Meghan was first. Her humiliation of being stripped and put on all fours. Kate knew Meghan had been told that if she cooperated, she’d be spared.

She had cooperated but hadn’t been spared.

Trask didn’t show Meghan’s death. Kate didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified.

She dreaded the thought of watching Paige be stabbed to death, but her guilt would force Kate to watch if he showed it. She hadn’t seen Paige’s death; she had been just minutes away in the woods, desperately trying to reach her in time. She had failed. She’d only seen the aftermath, touched her partner’s blood, smelled her fear.

Trask didn’t show Paige. Of course he wouldn’t, Kate thought. Paige had been his one mistake, and hers. He couldn’t show her death again because of who she was, an FBI agent who most certainly didn’t consent to the so- called fantasy rape role-playing. Her death connected him to the murder game, and he couldn’t pretend there weren’t people still looking for FBI Agent Paige Henshaw.

Rayanna was next. There she was on-screen, her chest marked by cigarette burns. Her eyes terrified, her lips quivering, her expression fighting with the need to give in. A knife came down toward her, her mouth opened to scream…

Cut. One of Trask’s men was raping another victim. Joanna. They’d spliced the tape, making it appear that Joanna enjoyed her assault. It was all part of Trask’s tightrope walk: to make everything appear somewhat legitimate.

Other girls flashed by, Angela and Carol and Christy. Over time the photography improved, but Trask’s cruelty was the same. He’d started in snuff films-DVDs-but technology had given him a boost with webcams and untraceable downloads. Kate didn’t know how many young women Trask had actually murdered before Paige, filming their agony to share with other sickos, but he’d been at his grisly task for years. She may have only identified a fraction of his victims, and they had so little evidence they’d never been able to build a solid case. That’s why she and Paige had come up with their plan five years ago. The plan that had ended in death and failure.

The “sample” ended. Kate slapped the tears off her cheeks. She had no right to cry. No right to suffer for the women who had died at his hands. The emotional pain she harbored was nothing compared to what they’d endured: the humiliation and torture. Their deaths were probably a relief.

Consensual role-playing? Who did Trask think he was kidding?

Unfortunately too many people. Including many of her superiors back then. Now they believed her, but only because Paige had died.

If only Kate hadn’t acted so soon…

If only she’d followed her instincts…

If only Paige hadn’t lied to her…

A lot of good all that did her now. And how could she blame Paige? Kate couldn’t very well yell at her partner about backup that never arrived. Because Paige was dead.

If Kate saw Trask again, he would die.

Even if she had to die along with him.

His first kill had been an accident.

It was early morning. Far too early for the sun, too early for the birds. The time he liked best, alone, to think.

Remember…

They’d been sixteen, two young lovers exploring as only eager amateurs could. Not really knowing what they were doing, but enjoying the thrill of being sexual, of tasting forbidden fruit.

He’d wanted her forever, and he always got what he wanted. He was the son of wealth and power; few dared to say no. And Monique had loved being his girl. She had a mouth on her that wouldn’t quit, knew how to use it. He’d suspected she’d practiced giving blow jobs on other boys-or maybe men-because she was too good to be a novice. But in bed, she had been a virgin, her telltale blood marking his sheets.

For six months they joyfully had intercourse, and were inseparable. But for him, it was never enough. He pushed Monique for more. Role-playing. Pain. Her pain. At first she was amicable. Anything to please him.

“Not like that,” she told him that last time, panting. They were in the pool house at his family’s estate. He had her on all fours, wearing a leash. He wanted her from behind. Her ass was so firm, so round, so perfect.

“You’ll like it.” He pushed her down.

“No, I won’t.”

Defiant. A bubble of anger surfaced. He would not let her say no.

“Are you jerking me around?”

“Of course not, I-”

“If you don’t want to play, get out.”

“You don’t mean that!” Monique’s voice quivered. She glanced over her shoulder, hurt, a little fear in her eyes. He stared, his entire body reacting to that faint panic on her face. He wanted more of that.

“Please,” she whispered. “I love you.”

“Bullshit. You don’t know what love is.”

“Maybe you’re the one with the problem. Can’t you get off without stupid games?”

How dare she talk to him like that! He had no problems getting off. She had liked the games, until they became too much for her, and then she had the nerve to say he had a problem?

She stood up, naked but for the collar and leash. She looked around for her clothing.

He slapped her. A red welt rose on her cheek. It didn’t surprise him that he’d hit her. What surprised him was that he felt no regret.

“I’m sorry,” he said automatically. His penis was rock solid again.

She glared. “Don’t ever do that again.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

He kissed her. Touched her where she liked. At first she protested feebly, but he knew what she wanted, knew the words that made her bend to his will, and soon she was all over him. He pushed her down to the floor and fucked her the way she asked for it. She moaned.

“Just. Like. That,” she begged.

His eyes fell to her smooth, white neck. He stared at the silky skin, a sheen of sweat glistening in the sunlight streaming through the windows. The dip in her throat, her muscles straining as her hips met his, working herself up to an orgasm, the sleek outline of her clavicle as she arched her back.

“Don’t stop,” she panted.

Her neck looked so good.

His hands went behind her head and he kissed her. Then he moved them down, brought his thumbs around. Caressed that hollow of her neck.

Slowly he squeezed. She didn’t know what he was doing at first, didn’t know until it was too late.

She grabbed at his hands but couldn’t speak.

The fear that had touched her face earlier now exploded, her terror real. He watched her eyes as his hands maintained the pressure. He continued fucking her, his orgasm building, her eyes panicked, her fists pounding on him.

He held on too long. Later he had tried to tell himself that he didn’t do it on purpose, that it had been an accident. That he had just wanted to maximize his pleasure. And he had. He’d never experienced such a high. Every inch of his skin radiated with power, as if every cell orgasmed as one, his entire body immersed in a forbidden pleasure.

She was convulsing beneath him when he finally let go, his body one with the universe. He saw everything with a clarity he knew he’d attempt to re-create. By then it was too late for Monique. He’d crushed the bone in her neck.

He watched her die.