Soulburn - The Complete Edition (Frailty) Page 5

  “So, he's the date rapist.” Having found a classic rock station, Constance turned sideways in the seat and rested her back against the door. She pulled her knees up close, so her feet were propped against the center console.

  “Sure. Maybe you like to meet him?”

  “I feel luckier already.” Changing subject, Constance continued, “You miss your family in Russia?”

  “It was just mother and I. We lived in city of Rybinsk. She is gone now.” He missed his mother, like he expected any child would. He never knew his father, and she had worked hard to provide for what little they had. It had warmed his heart to see her so proud of him when he left with the UWA, and he had intended to eventually move her to America to be with him. Within a year's time, though, she had become ill and died quickly. He never got to see her face again. By the time he made it back to Russia for the funeral, the casket had already been sealed, and they would not reopen it for him.

  A sign indicating the exit for the interstate was coming up, and Roofy decided to take it. Pulling on to the lane for the entrance ramp, Roofy stopped to pay a toll. “What about you? You have a good family, no?”

  Constance wrapped her arms around her knees. At first, she considered making up a wild story that would intrigue her fellow traveler, but she decided not to. She wanted to keep their relationship real, which was appropriate since this certainly felt like the first real thing to happen in her life. There were no awful, destructive parents. No father that had come home drunk and beaten or molested her. No mother that had verbally abused or rejected her. No nasty divorce that had left her scarred. Her family was actually very normal, and there was the problem for Constance. They were too normal for her. Their everyday lives, habits, and idiosyncrasies were annoying.

  Her mother was so dramatic, turning everything into a reason for the Facebook community, nearest friend, or relative to come running with sympathy and pity. Constance reasoned that she was so insecure that she relied on attention from everyone else to support her feelings and inadequacies. That spilled over into their interactions. It was more like her mother wanted to be her friend or her sister than an actual parent, often bickering with her over the stupidest things. There had been an occasion when Constance had a slumber party with friends, and her mother had stayed up and tried to join in with them. It was embarrassing and made her feel even more estranged from her parent.

  Her father bought into it, hook, line, and sinker. He followed her mother around like a lost puppy dog, providing comfort for her every emotionally weak whim.

  Somewhere down the line, Constance, in self-realization, determined it was nothing that she should be judging them so harshly on, though. That it was her that did not fit; in a way that left her feeling like she had been born to the wrong family, in the wrong place, at the wrong time. She would have absorbed herself into something around her, but she found the same faults there.

  No, she just did not belong, at least not in Richmond. She belonged with Roofy and wherever he was taking them.

  Suddenly aware she had left Roofy waiting in silence for an answer, she spoke. “So, where are we going?”

  Roofy gave her a sideways glance, admiring her innocent smile. “Where road takes us.”

  15

  Kate, having arrived home, nearly tripped on a yard timber trying to make her way to the front porch in the pitch dark. “Son-of-a-bitch. Where is that bum?” she asked, frustrated. Roofy knew he was to be home when she got there. Now, not only was he disobeying her specific house rules, but he had left the porch light off, as well. She scoffed at how inconsiderate he was. Taking slow, methodical steps, she made her way up to the door and struggled to determine which key was the one for the house. “He better be dead in a ditch somewhere.”

  “Could I be that lucky?” Inside, she flipped on the light in the foyer area and hung up her lightweight coat. There were no other lights on, and things were totally quiet. She called out for the dog but go no response, leaving her to wonder where the hell the buffoon had taken the pooch to. It was unlike him to not respond, as it typically ran to the door barking in excitement when someone got home. “If he's touched the money in the bank, I'll kill him myself,” Kate said out loud to herself as she climbed the stairs and made her way to the bedroom.

  Turning on the lights in the bedroom, she noticed her Red Siren costume laid out on the bed, with the dog next to it. Caught off guard, something seemed wrong. She stared intently at the animal, her brain working feverishly to understand the source of her growing discomfort.

  “What the hell?” She moved slowly toward the unresponsive Cocker Spaniel, but she only made it a few steps before the realization of what she was seeing set in.

  Goose bumps ran up her spine, and her heart beat like a jackhammer. It became clear that the dog's head was set at an abnormal angle to its body. Once the observation was apparent, all reasoning deserted her.

  Frozen where she stood, a musky scent violated her nose. She was certain she was not alone. She knew she had to get out, but she did not want to turn around.

  Trembling with fear and thoughts scattered, she finally got her feet to move, turning frantically to leave the room.

  Stumbling to an abrupt stop, she was face to face with a large figure wearing a Claw mask. Kate tried to scream, but a large, powerful, gloved hand wrapped around the lower part of her face, covering her mouth and nose. A second hand grabbed her by the back of the head. The grip was vice-like. She tried to scream again, but the sound was muffled. Horrified, she gasped for breath, but the smell of leather was the only thing she received. Pulling at her attacker's arms and kicking, she fought to free herself, but the figure's strength was unyielding. The black began to close in, leaving just the sight of his sadistic grin.

  16

  Constance awoke to find the car stopped and empty. Neck sore from her head having leaned at an awkward angle against the passenger side window, she wiped her eyes and looked around. The gas pumps beside the car indicated why they had stopped. Opening the door, she stepped out of the car and stretched.

  A short distance away, Roofy approached from the gas station. He had a small paper bag in one hand and two drinks in the other.

  “Whatcha got?” Constance asked as he reached the car.

  “Cigarettes and the lottery tickets.”

  “Yummy.” Constance took one of the drinks and opened it. “Where are we?”

  “Memphis.” Roofy tossed the small bag into the car and lit a cigarette.

  Constance clasped the can in both hands, almost as if praying. “Can we go to Graceland?”

  “What is this 'Graceland'?” Roofy took a long drag from the cigarette, amused by how giddy the girl was.

  “It's the home of the King.”

  “America has never had king,” Roofy stated, exhaling.

  “Elvis Presley, big guy. You know, the King,” Constance corrected playfully, noticing a small amount of blood forming under one of Roofy's nostrils.

  “Ah, your Elvis.” Roofy shuffled his hips some. “That is right, momma.”

  “What's that?” Constance asked curiously, head tilted slightly. Opening the trunk, she rummaged through her travel bag. “Hold on a sec.”

  Concerned, Roofy touched his face and looked at the blood on his fingers.

  Constance handed him the small towel that she had taken from him during their first meeting. “Here. Use this.”

  Roofy pressed the cloth firmly against his nose. There was no pain, but he had a good idea what was causing it.

  “Lean your head back.” Constance demonstrated what to do. “Okay, give it a minute.” While Roofy did as she instructed, Constance zipped her bag and closed the trunk. “That should do it. Let's take a look.”

  He held out the towel for Constance to see, revealing a good-sized spot of blood on it, but the flow from his nostril has stopped.

  “That's a lot of blood, Roof. Are you okay?”

  “Am good. Is nothing.” Roofy did not see any reason to concer
n her yet. In time he would have to tell her or send her home when it got worse. Right now, he wanted her to enjoy herself. Besides, he did not totally agree with the doctor's diagnosis. For some time, Roofy had started believing there was something else to blame for his loss of control and hallucinations. Something far more sinister.

  17

  Observing the Reiner house in the dark, Detective Laura Stenks sat in the parked car in front of the house. It was procedure to watch for anything unusual or dangerous before approaching a potentially hostile witness. Satisfied with what she had seen, she grabbed her police two-way radio and called in an update to the dispatcher at the other end. “I'm at the Reiner household. Contact could not be established by phone, but there is a car in the driveway. I'm going to try the door.”

  “There is a single light on upstairs,” Laura indicated to the dispatch officer as she moved cautiously up to the front porch. Knocking on the door caused it to open slightly. That was all she needed to make a legal entry, but it had also alerted anyone in the house to the fact that she was there. “Door is ajar. I'm going in.” Putting the radio back into its pouch on her belt, she took out her flashlight and firearm. With them at the ready, she listened at the opening for any movement or voices but heard nothing.

  “Police! Mister and Misses Reiner?” Making her announcement, she stepped into the dark foyer and swept the area with her firearm, before stopping to listen again for movement.

  All silent, Detective Stenks began making her way toward a faint glow at the top of the staircase. “Police! Anyone home?” With each step, she winced. It was taking a while for her sexual exploratory wounds to heal. Slowing her pace, she made a conscious effort to breathe in slow, deep breaths and tenderly made her way up.

  “Mister and Misses Reiner?” Laura yelled out from the top of the stairs, discovering the source of the light was coming from a slightly ajar bedroom door. Moving as quickly as her wounded body would allow, she flanked the door and hesitated, checking once more for movement. Gun ready, Laura barged in and swept the room, making sure to check behind the door.

  Confident she was secure, she turned her attention to the scene that dominated the room, forgetting about her pain.

  Kate Reiner, dressed in her Red Siren costume, hung from a large hook mounted in the ceiling. Her hands were tied, one at each end, to a pipe that ran along her shoulders and behind her neck. Ropes, wrapped around each wrist and her neck, ran to the hook. She was high enough off the ground that only her toes were touching the floor. Her feet were also separated by a pipe, with one foot being tied to each end. An S&M style gag was inserted in her mouth, and it covered the lower portion of her face.

  The bottom to the costume had been torn away in order for a leather harness to fit. The contraption consisted of a belt part, strapped around the waist, and an attachment that went in-between the legs, covering the groin and butt. Large amounts of blood had streamed out around it, ran down the legs, and pooled in the floor.

  Laura paused to try to figure out what, she assumed was a custom-made sex toy, was on Mrs. Reiner’s genital area. Stumped, she found herself staring up at the face. Mrs. Reiner's eyes were still wide from the terror she experienced.

  Methodically, Detective Stenks checked the victim's vital signs, grabbed her radio, and called in to headquarters. “Detective Stenks at the Reiner household. We have a possible murder. I'm going to need back-up and forensics, asap,” she reported in a steady voice, unfazed by what she had seen.

  Catching herself looking around, like a child who did not want to get caught stealing cookies from a cookie jar Laura holstered her radio and took out her cell phone. Relaxing a bit, she began taking pictures: some close-up, some from farther out, and plenty from all angles. With each image captured, a feeling of sexual stimulation grew. Laura knew if she got caught taking crime scene pictures on a cell phone and keeping them for her personal use she would be in serious trouble with the department. Her appetite was too insatiable, though. She had felt the rush, and she needed more. If she wanted to keep control, she needed more.

  Satisfied with her haul, Laura held the phone close flipped through each picture, as if in a trance.

  In the distance, the sound of approaching sirens could be heard. She pocketed the phone and left the house to greet the arriving officers.

  Captivated by her own desires, Detective Stenks failed to notice the malapropos light reflecting off a small, shiny surface on a shelf above the doorway to the bedroom. Hidden among some knickknacks was a micro-camera.

  A few blocks away, watching the live feed of the Reiner bedroom on a laptop sitting in the passenger seat, a lone figure sat in his car contemplating.

  “Interesting.”

  18

  The 'e' in the word Blues, on the sign to the Memphis Blues Motel, flickered on and off. Below it, bathed in the soft glow of the sign, was Roofy's red Mustang.

  Inside room eleven, Roofy had settled in for the evening. In a wife beater, jeans, and socks, he stood, large frame slightly hunched, watching UWA wrestling on the room’s small television. The TV sat atop a dresser, which was situated directly across from two full size beds. To his left was a closed bathroom door, where the sounds of running water were being drowned out by the wrestling announcer yelling that the champ had delivered a big chop to the challenger.

  Lost in thought, Roofy recalled how badly it stung when he had been on the receiving end of that chop. The champ had been in the business a long time, yet he was a humble guy, willing to help others who were just coming up in the industry. Roofy had been given an opportunity to work a brief program with the man, and despite the fact that he was scripted to lose, the man holding the belt had allowed Roofy to hit a lot of the spotlight moves. It was a generous act that had helped to catapult Roofy's career.

  Stalking the big Russian through the slightly opened bathroom door, Constance took advantage of the fact that he was oblivious to her movements. Bursting through the door with ferocity, stripped to her bra and panties, and growling, she leaped out and up toward the large Russian's head.

  “Oh shit.” Caught like a sack of potatoes, she hung wrapped up in Roofy's grip.

  Aside from the fact that he was holding her over six feet off the ground in one arm, Roofy did not turn his attention from the wrestling program.

  The announcer hyped the main event for the night, which was set to be a tag team match.

  Constance yelled playfully as Roofy, with little effort, tossed her over to the bed, where she landed, giggling. Mimicking the wrestling announcer, she said, “The winner – Mr. Apocalypse!”

  Roofy shrugged and cut his eyes in her direction. “Was good attack, I think.”

  Constance grabbed a pillow, wrapped in a faded blue pillowcase, and sat up on her knees. She wondered how long the bedding had been in use, as all of it was discolored and worn. “Not good enough,” she replied, deviously, “this time.”

  Stretching out on her belly, she propped her elbows on the bunched up pillow and rested in her palms.

  “Why don't you wrestle again?” Constance asked, trying to get the big Russian's attention away from the television program.

  “Put clothes on.”

  Constance alternated bringing her feet up off the bed. “You obviously still enjoy it.”

  “Put clothes on.”

  “And you're still in great shape.”

  “You have clothing, yes?” Roofy asked, rolling his eyes.

  Constance got up, intentionally walking in front of him on her way to the bathroom. “One of us is uncomfortable.”

  Roofy picked up the remote and scrolled through the channels.

  Now with a t-shirt on, Constance walked back past him to the bed. “Okay. Now. You wrestling?”

  The big man turned off the television and sat the remote down on the dresser. “Told you. I cannot.”

  Constance was back to sitting on her knees, while cuddling the pillow she had rested on moments earlier. “More like 'Will not'.”

 
Roofy sat down on the end of her bed with his back to her. “I had blackout and wild visions. A good man got hurt. I still have these visions.”

  “Call a doctor and get your head checked.”

  “I have done this.”

  “And?”

  Roofy leaned forward, resting his elbows on his legs. He contemplated telling her what the doctor had said, but he knew it would alarm her, deciding instead to share his own interpretation of his ailment. “It is not important. For me, feels like I have demon inside.” He pointed to his head. “In my head, is like I am not same person. I must fight for control.”

  Sneaking up behind him, Constance picked up her pillow. She could barely contain herself from snickering.

  Roofy sat up straighter, with one hand on his knee and the other rubbing the back of his neck. “I feel I am losing this fight.” He hesitated, waiting for her response.

  She delivered it, unloading with a pillow attack to the side of his head.

  Dumbfounded, he sat with the pillow wrapped around his face.

  Behind him, Constance covered her mouth, trying to muffle her laugh.

  Roofy stood up and tossed the pillow back to her. The gloom of the discussion they had left him feeling less than playful. “It is time for sleeping. We leave early in morning.”

  Cheshire grin in place, Constance pulled the cheaply made, thin covers down.

  The Russian ex-wrestler walked to the far side of his bed, which was separated from her bed by a night stand that had a lamp and radio alarm clock on it. He stripped down to his boxer shorts.

  The teenage girl sat down on the side of her bed and watched him. “You're going to be okay. We're going to be okay.” She did not know what was wrong with him, but she was beginning to get the impression it was much more serious than he was letting on.