pulled.
Just like the magician’s trick, Sara removed a six inch metal skewer from the box.
Unlike the magician’s trick, this skewer was slick with blood.
“Oh, Jesus. Laneesha.”
Sara knew Lester was coming. Martin would be back soon, too. She had to get out of there. But she wasn’t going to leave Laneesha here with these monsters.
That posed a problem. There were dozens—perhaps over a hundred—of these skewers sticking in the cabinet. Did Sara even have time to remove all of them? And if she did, would Laneesha bleed to death?
She looked around for an answer, and saw two things on the floor that made her stomach churn. A car battery with jumper cables, and a handheld blowtorch.
She had to get Laneesha out of there.
“Laneesha, honey, it’s Sara. I’m going to help you, okay? I need to get these things out of your face first. Jesus, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry…”
Sara lifted her hands, hesitated, reached closer, hesitated, and then pulled the six skewers out of the outline of the head as fast as she could, Laneesha’s cries of pain scarring her soul. The she opened the door to view Laneesha’s face.
“Kill me,” Laneesha croaked.
Sara recoiled in horror. The blood. The damage. The agony the girl must be in.
That’s when Sara sensed someone behind her.
She didn’t hear it. She sensed it. Like feeling a glance from across a room. Since the door Sara came through hadn’t opened, the person must have come from the other door in the room.
Not Lester. Not Martin. This was the one who had done this to Laneesha.
Sara spun around, tugging the utility knife out of her jeans, ready to stab.
It was a man. A fat man, naked except a black rubber apron that stretched from his chest to his thighs. He’d come out of the door—the bathroom door—Sara had been about to open. His hair was gray and shoulder-length. His chubby cheeks glistening with sweat over several days’ worth of stubble. His bare skin was lined with long, parallel scabs, like stripes, some of them still bleeding. In his right hand he was clenching a meat hook.
That should have been shock enough, but Sara stared into the man’s eyes. His smiling, pea green eyes, and she felt if she were being sucked into them, falling down a deep, dark hole.
She saw those eyes a thousand times in her nightmares.
They peered at her whenever the lights went out.
Even with all that had happened on the island, those eyes were still the single most terrifying thing Sara had ever seen.
They belonged to Paulie Gunther Spence, the man who abducted her when she was eleven years old.
Lester’s rage was a diesel engine in his chest, pumping and burning and threatening to blow. The Joe pet was special to Lester. He came to the island with Martin, and Lester had bitten off some of his sensitive parts, but left him mostly untouched. He liked the funny
For six years, Lester had taken good care of the Joe pet. He was Lester’s friend.
But now someone had killed him.
The doctor was in the lab. Martin was out. The stairs were the only way up to Lester’s room, and he didn’t pass anyone while bringing the hay.
That left one person. The only other person on the second floor.
Lester looked around for a weapon, wrapping his large hand around a filet knife. Razor sharp. Perfect for detail work.
He stormed out his room, heading down the corridor.
When Paulie Gunther Spence was a little boy, he wanted to kill people when he grew up. If his parents had known any abnormal psychology, they would have noted little Paulie wet the bed, started fires, and liked to hurt animals. These behaviors were documented precursors to psychopathy.
But they were too busy physically and sexually abusing Paulie to notice that he might be a little off kilter.
Perhaps they should have paid more attention, because when Paulie turned twelve he turned on the gas stove, blew out the flame, and waited in the back yard while the carbon monoxide filled the house and poisoned them to death.
It was deemed an accident, and the neighbors corroborated that Paulie was a handful and his parents sometimes made him sleep outside.
Paulie did the foster home shuffle for several years, eventually running away at fifteen and joining a travelling carnival. He lived the life of a carny for a decade, and the work suited him. Especially since it gave him easy access to children.
He never grabbed a kid while on the job. That would have been stupid. But he talked to the kids as he worked the game booths and operated the rides, and those who didn’t know better would give him their last name when he asked. Sometimes they’d even tell him where they lived.
The question that he cared about most, though, was whether the kid had a dog, what kind of dog it was, and if the dog was their responsibility.
Then Paulie would wait until after hours, use a phone book or the Internet to find the child’s house, and then wait in the shadows for the child to let his dog out for the night. Many of the suburbs the carnival visited had big back yards with plenty of good places to hide, and Paulie only chose them if the dogs were small breeds.
Most times, it was a bust, offering Paulie no bigger thrill than some window peeping fantasies and jerking off on the azaleas. But every so often, he got lucky. The kid opened the patio door, and Paulie grabbed him.
Twelve children in ten years. Their screams were like candy. None lived to tell the police.
Then Paulie messed up. One of the kids he took yelled so loud it brought unwanted attention. Paulie was arrested. He did most of his time in isolation, because every time he was put into general pop his fellow inmates tried to kill him; the unwritten convict code for dealing with child molesters. When he got out he had to register as a sex offender. Which meant no working around kids. Which meant no more carny life.
Paulie got a job in construction, saw his court appointed shrink once a week and fed him bullshit about how well he was adjusting, and cruised the malls for young meat.
He did okay. It surprised him how many parents let their precious little children run around unsupervised. He was fine for a few years until he got greedy and tried to grab two girls at once. Someone saw him, which led to the cops checking the parking lot security tapes, which led to his car being IDed, which led to him being caught before he’d gotten the chance to enjoy both little morsels.
This time he went away for life, and they locked him in solitary and threw away the key.
He rotted in that hole for more than a decade. Then that military stiff came to visit, giving him the chance to not only get free, but to kill again. Paulie was happy to sign on.
But he didn’t know a crazy doc was going to shove needles into his brain, taking away his ability to speak, and changing his lust to kill into an all-engrossing, unquenchable thirst.
Every waking moment, Paulie existed only to indulge his need. But rather than a blessing, it was an awful burden. Whenever Paulie was without a victim, he was compelled to take his bloodlust out on himself. Every square centimeter of his body was covered with self-inflicted cuts. The pain was intolerable, but the urge to cause pain— even if it was to himself—always won out.
So he tried to keep his victims alive as long as possible. A difficult line to walk, because hurting them felt soooo good.
One day, he would get out of this place. Then he would have his revenge on the doctor who did this to him.
But until then, there were perks.
Like this juicy little tidbit with the utility knife.
