Carol stepped outside, closing the unlocked door behind her. She looked up and down the street while putting in her ear buds and jogged down the steps and off into the neighborhood.
He reminded himself of why he was there to begin with. He couldn’t afford to slip up due to having way too much fun. His fingers touched the cool leather of the journal in his bag, and he leaned up against the wall and opened it to the bookmarked page.
How many pedophiles, rapists, and abusers are out on the street because of a defense attorney with no morals and a perfect track record? Am I fooling myself in thinking I can help her? Have I put my own well-being at risk by knowing too much? I have to admit, she scares me.
With a final nod, he tucked the journal back in his bag and looked up and down the street, paying special attention to the neighbour. Once he felt confident no eyes were on him, he scurried around the corner of the bungalow, up the front steps, and into the house.
Carol Tate certainly didn’t spend her money on interior decorating. Everything looked plain and extremely minimal: a leather sofa, a medium-sized flat-screen television and a glass coffee table. The only semblance of a personal touch came in the form of a black and white abstract painting centered on the wall behind her couch.
He took a leisurely stroll through the tiny house, taking all of ten minutes. Inside a walk-in closet the size of most people’s bedrooms, he discovered some of her vast fortune. The tailored suits and Gucci shoes were definitely quality items, but also very plain. The only punch of color in the entire closet was a formal ball gown in vibrant red, adorned in frosty crystals.
He held the garment in front of him in the full-length mirror.
Within minutes of finding a spot, the front door opened and closed. Carol Tate sang to herself on her way to the bedroom. He knew she was undressing and would head straight for the shower. The thought of her being naked repulsed him, but he could think of no better way to mortify the always-in-control ball breaker.
The second the shower door closed behind her, he left his hiding place in the pantry to ready the living room for her big surprise.
“Hello? Is somebody out there?” She stepped out of her bedroom, clutching her robe closed and inching her way down the short hallway to the living room. “I know someone is here.”
She’d heard the music and undoubtedly suspected she wasn’t alone. Her jaw dropped upon seeing the white orchid in an empty brandy bottle in the center of her coffee table. Her gasp as her gaze settled on the tumbler of amber liquid, made his day.
Carol Tate shrieked and ran for the front door, fumbling with the locks just like he knew she would.
“Oh, my God! Somebody help me!”
Before she could call for help in earnest, he came up behind her and pressed the revolver to her temple.
“Shhhh....” He put his mouth next to her ear and gave it a flick with his tongue. “Guess who?” He spun her around, pinning her against the door.
She had already gathered her composure and now glared into his eyes. “Listen, if you are who I think you are, you don’t have to do this. Let me represent you and I promise you won’t spend a day behind bars.”
His laughter filled the room. “Are you fucking kidding me? I’ve got a gun to your head and you want to cut a deal?”
“Wait, I’ve seen you some place before. Yes, it was—”
Her words were cut short with her skull meeting the butt end of his gun. Before she crumpled to the floor, he wrapped his arms around her waist and dragged her over to the couch.
“Shit! Why didn’t I think of that? Of course she’d have a photographic memory.” All of the deviations from his original plans made him uncomfortable. He sifted his fingers through his hair and paced back and forth, matching each step with a calming breath.
He straightened his stance and went straight to work, binding her hands and feet before taping her big mouth shut. Several minutes later, when her pathetic whimpers reached him, all of his tools sat in perfect order on the coffee table.
He stood behind the couch and watched her struggle against her bindings. She momentarily froze, staring at the items laid out beside her. All of a sudden her ass came up off the sofa, and she maneuvered into a sitting position.
“Now, now, you know I can’t allow that.” He sauntered over, his gun pointed directly at her head. “Lie down.”
She refused.
He stood before her and ran the shaft of his revolver in a straight line from under her chin, down the valley between her heaving breasts. His gaze matched hers. “I said, lie down.”
The first sign of tears pooled in her eyes as she slowly dropped to the side and lifted her legs onto the couch. Her words muffled behind the tape.
Another length of rope served to tie her thighs together. After which he taped her head down and straddled her. The lawyer pleaded with her eyes, tears spilling out and disappearing into her hairline.
“I’m going to take this tape off, so for your own good, keep that big mouth of yours shut.” He ripped the tape off of her face, taking skin from her lips, too. She began sobbing uncontrollably.
“Did you really think you’d get away with it for this long without repercussions? It’s bad enough you helped set free all of those sick fucks back into society, but did you really have to involve her? Do you get off on intimidating people, instilling fear in them?” He picked up a stack of money from the table.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about? Involving who?”
“Was it all just for the money?” He wadded up the first bill and stuffed it in her mouth before leaning forward and whispering in her ear.
“Errrrrr...,” she growled in frustration, attempting to free herself.
He proceeded to cram bill after bill in her mouth. “Does it ring any bells now?”
Her body, now wracked in sobs, ceased to fight. Both her wrists and ankles bled from the tape cutting into her flesh.
The lawyers’ gaze was transfixed on the needle he slowly and deliberately twirled between his fingers. Carol Tate no longer struggled against the tape embedded in her deep cuts.
With his free hand, he picked up the tumbler of brandy and brought it to his mouth. The corner of his lips twitched as he held the glass over her wrists, and tipped it. Her body grew rigid beneath him. The amber liquid splashed, mixing with blood red.
Suddenly he caught an image of himself in the mirror above her television. He shook his head in disgust.
The first hole was always the hardest; once he got the feel of the needle pushing through her flesh he’d be fine. Her eyes rolled back into her head, but she would soon be wide awake. He gritted his teeth and pushed the sewing tool through her bottom lip. He was rewarded by her eyes flying open. Her chest heaved, and a muted scream spasmed throughout her body before only the whites of her eyes were visible.
He concentrated on the next stitch, pulling the fishing line taut to secure her lips together. She continued to fade in and out of consciousness while he sewed twenty perfectly spaced stitches, meticulously cleaning the blood from around each hole before sitting back to admire his handiwork.
Carol Tate looked straight ahead, her eyes vacant. He flitted about the room, cleaning and picking up any evidence of his being there.
He took the orchid out of the brandy bottle and returned it to the recycle box. He then placed the stem in her hands.
