pool investigators are on it: Tyler, Ruiz and Bell. They’re checking everyone fresh from prison in the past six months who has a sexual history.”
“We don’t have a name,” I muttered. “Or a past. Not a freakin’ atom’s worth of info about the guy.”
“We know his DNA. We know he’s got some kind of accent. And we know he’s six-two with blue eyes and dark hair. Not to say he looks like that now, but on that note, did you …?”
I pulled a sheet of paper from my pocket. I’d had the art types manipulate a facial photo of Gary, taking off weight, adding various hair styles and colors, beards and mustaches. I handed the sheet of photos to Gershwin, who smiled and nodded.
“Cool, Big Ryde: Fifty shades of Donnie.”
20
Debro was pumping iron on a foam mat in his living room, the barbells rising and falling in time with his unlabored breath, the fifty-pound load for building strength, not bulk. He was naked save for a red thong and the knit cap. One windowless wall of the room was mostly mirror, so he could watch himself.
The television screen that dominated one end of the room was turned to the gay channel, LOGO, an endless procession of delicious-looking men and some lesbians. Debro liked lesbians because they had often been the target of hatred, and it had made them tough and resilient. He particularly enjoyed the young diesel dykes in their camo pants and clodhoppers, a pack of Marlboros rolled into a short-sleeved tee. It was a cool look.
Debro wasn’t interested in the television, however. He was planning an event that would allow him to continue his work. It would be challenging, but reap huge rewards.
He heard a muffled thump and held the barbell at its apex and listened. Another thump, this one loud. He cursed, set aside the weights, and headed upstairs and into the room.
Jacob Eisen sprawled on the floor in a puddle of piss. Harold Brighton was at the far side of the room, lying on the floor. He was raising his leg, then slamming it down on the floor. Wham. Raise. Wham.
You never knew the reactions, different with each one. The slut on the floor, Jacob, had settled down after a day, content to be a placid fuck. But Harold had been the hardest to subdue at the capture, and since then had spent all of his time fighting to get to his feet. Even when his mind seemed shut down he rolled and moaned.
Harold had to be replaced.
Debro opened a door at the far end of the room, revealing a small utility bathroom and the bucket and mop he used for maintenance. He pulled a reinforced plastic tarp from a cabinet and returned to the large room, flinging the tarp over Harold as if covering a mattress. He gathered the ends of the tarp and yanked Harold to the floor. Harold’s hands pressed against the plastic like flowers trying to break from the soil.
Debro returned to the bathroom for his supplies, filling a syringe from a small brown bottle. He preferred oral dosing while they slept, but Harold needed faster calming, his fingernails scratching at the tarp as his cries grew more frantic.
When Debro was within a step, Harold kicked, catching Debro’s ankle and sending him flailing to the floor. Debro hobbled back to the bathroom, searching the cabinet until he found the steel pry-bar used to open the painted-over windows when he’d bought the place. He twirled it like a baton and went back to Harold, his harsh croaks agitating Jacob, whose head was craning from the floor.
Debro felt his anger rising as he crossed to Harold, a memory regressing thirteen years, to high school, Harold Brighton practicing for a production of
Grease
, his lithe body vaulting across the stage, his shirt off in the dank heat of the auditorium, shorts rolled up his sinewy dancer’s thighs. It’s after-hours and Brighton is rehearsing alone. Debro has crept …
into the wings and crouches in the dark behind an old piano, watching Harold Brighton cross the floor repeatedly, working to get the moves correct. Debro’s
“We don’t have a name,” I muttered. “Or a past. Not a freakin’ atom’s worth of info about the guy.”
“We know his DNA. We know he’s got some kind of accent. And we know he’s six-two with blue eyes and dark hair. Not to say he looks like that now, but on that note, did you …?”
I pulled a sheet of paper from my pocket. I’d had the art types manipulate a facial photo of Gary, taking off weight, adding various hair styles and colors, beards and mustaches. I handed the sheet of photos to Gershwin, who smiled and nodded.
“Cool, Big Ryde: Fifty shades of Donnie.”
20
Debro was pumping iron on a foam mat in his living room, the barbells rising and falling in time with his unlabored breath, the fifty-pound load for building strength, not bulk. He was naked save for a red thong and the knit cap. One windowless wall of the room was mostly mirror, so he could watch himself.
The television screen that dominated one end of the room was turned to the gay channel, LOGO, an endless procession of delicious-looking men and some lesbians. Debro liked lesbians because they had often been the target of hatred, and it had made them tough and resilient. He particularly enjoyed the young diesel dykes in their camo pants and clodhoppers, a pack of Marlboros rolled into a short-sleeved tee. It was a cool look.
Debro wasn’t interested in the television, however. He was planning an event that would allow him to continue his work. It would be challenging, but reap huge rewards.
He heard a muffled thump and held the barbell at its apex and listened. Another thump, this one loud. He cursed, set aside the weights, and headed upstairs and into the room.
Jacob Eisen sprawled on the floor in a puddle of piss. Harold Brighton was at the far side of the room, lying on the floor. He was raising his leg, then slamming it down on the floor. Wham. Raise. Wham.
You never knew the reactions, different with each one. The slut on the floor, Jacob, had settled down after a day, content to be a placid fuck. But Harold had been the hardest to subdue at the capture, and since then had spent all of his time fighting to get to his feet. Even when his mind seemed shut down he rolled and moaned.
Harold had to be replaced.
Debro opened a door at the far end of the room, revealing a small utility bathroom and the bucket and mop he used for maintenance. He pulled a reinforced plastic tarp from a cabinet and returned to the large room, flinging the tarp over Harold as if covering a mattress. He gathered the ends of the tarp and yanked Harold to the floor. Harold’s hands pressed against the plastic like flowers trying to break from the soil.
Debro returned to the bathroom for his supplies, filling a syringe from a small brown bottle. He preferred oral dosing while they slept, but Harold needed faster calming, his fingernails scratching at the tarp as his cries grew more frantic.
When Debro was within a step, Harold kicked, catching Debro’s ankle and sending him flailing to the floor. Debro hobbled back to the bathroom, searching the cabinet until he found the steel pry-bar used to open the painted-over windows when he’d bought the place. He twirled it like a baton and went back to Harold, his harsh croaks agitating Jacob, whose head was craning from the floor.
Debro felt his anger rising as he crossed to Harold, a memory regressing thirteen years, to high school, Harold Brighton practicing for a production of
Grease
, his lithe body vaulting across the stage, his shirt off in the dank heat of the auditorium, shorts rolled up his sinewy dancer’s thighs. It’s after-hours and Brighton is rehearsing alone. Debro has crept …
into the wings and crouches in the dark behind an old piano, watching Harold Brighton cross the floor repeatedly, working to get the moves correct. Debro’s
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