Karen Rose - Die for Me

And the eyes. He’d learned there were stages to death by torture. All were most clearly seen through the victim’s eyes. The first stage was fear, followed by defiance, then despair as the victim realized there was truly no escape. The fourth stage, hope, depended entirely on the victim’s tolerance for pain. If the victim persisted through the first wave, he might give them respite, just long enough to allow hope to surface. Warren Keyes had had a remarkable tolerance for pain.

Then, when all hope was gone, there was the fifth stage-the plea, the pitiful appeal for death, for release. Toward the end, there was stage six, the final surge of defiance, a primitive fight for survival that predated modern man.

But the seventh stage was the best and most elusive-the instant of death itself. The burst… the flash of energy as the corporeal yielded its essence. It was a moment so brief that even the camera lens was incapable of complete capture, so fleeting that the human eye would miss it if one weren’t expressly watching. He had been watching.

And he’d been rewarded. His eyes lingered on the seventh painting. Although last in the series, he’d painted it first, rushing to his easel while Warren’s released energy still vibrated along every nerve and Warren’s final, perfect scream still rang in his ears.

He saw it there, in Warren’s eyes. That indefinable something he alone had found in the instant of death. He’d first achieved it with Claire Dies more than a year ago. Had it really been that long? Time did fly when you were having fun. And he was finally having fun. He’d been chasing that indefinable something his entire life. He’d found it now.

Genius. That’s what Jager Van Zandt called it. He’d first gained the entertainment mogul’s attention with Claire, and although he personally considered his Zachary and Jared series to be superior, Claire remained VZ’s favorite.

Of course, Van Zandt had never seen his paintings, only his computer animations in which he’d transformed Claire into “Clothilde,” a World War II Vichy French whore strangled to death by a soldier who’d been betrayed by her treachery. A crowd pleaser wherever the clip was shown, Clothilde had become the star of Behind Enemy Lines, Van Zandt’s latest “entertainment venture.”

Most people called them video games. Van Zandt liked to think he was building an entertainment empire. Before Behind Enemy Lines, VZ’s empire existed only in the man’s dreams. But VZ’s dreams had come true- Behind Enemy Lines had flown off the shelves-a runaway success thanks to Clothilde and the rest of his animations. My art.

Van Zandt understood that as well and had chosen Clothilde, caught in her moment of death, to adorn the Behind Enemy Lines box. It always gave him a rush to see it, to know that the hands gripping “Clothilde’s” throat were his own.

VZ clearly recognized his genius, but he wasn’t sure the man could handle the reality of his art. So he’d go on letting VZ believe what he wanted to-that Clothilde was a fictional character and that his own name was Frasier Lewis. In the end both he and Van Zandt would get what they wanted. VZ would get a best-selling “entertainment venture” and make his millions. And millions will see my art.

Which was the ultimate goal. He had a gift. VZ’s video game was merely the most efficient way to showcase that gift to the most people in the shortest time. Once he was established he wouldn’t need the animations. His paintings would be in demand on their own. But for now, he needed Van Zandt and Van Zandt needed him.

VZ was going to be very pleased with his latest work. He clicked his mouse and once again watched his animation of Warren Keyes. It was perfect. Every muscle and sinew rippled as the man struggled against his bonds, arching and writhing in pain as his bones were slowly pulled from their sockets. The blood looked good, too. Not too red. Very authentic. Careful study of the video had enabled him to duplicate every aspect of Warren’s body, down to the simplest twitch.

He’d done an especially skillful job with Warren’s face, capturing the fear and the defiance as Warren resisted the demands of his captor. Which would be me. The Inquisitor. He’d depicted himself as the old man who’d lured Warren to his dungeon.

Speaking of such, now that Warren Dies was complete it was time to lure his next victim. He opened UCanModel, the delightful little website with which he’d had such success in locating the perfect faces for his work. For a modest fee, actors and models could post their portfolios on UCanModel so that any Hollywood director had only to click on their picture to launch them to instant stardom.

Actors and models made the perfect subjects. They had beauty, the ability to emote, and their faces translated well to film and canvas. They also were so eager for fame and so poor that they’d take just about any job. Luring them with a part in a documentary had worked every time and allowed him to purport himself as the nonthreatening old history professor named Ed Munch. He was getting tired of being Edvard Munch, though. Maybe he’d be Hieronymus Bosch next time. Now, there was artistic genius.

He perused the lineup his current search had produced. He’d identified fifteen prospects, but he’d already eliminated all but five. The others weren’t nearly poor enough to be easily hooked. Of the five, only three were truly destitute. His financial checks had shown them all to be in or on the verge of bankruptcy.

He’d shadowed these three prospects for a week and found only one to be solitary and secretive enough not to be missed afterward. That was an important component. His victims must not have anyone to look for them. They were runaways like pretty Brittany with her folded hands. Or, like Warren and Billy before him, they had to be so secretive that no one would know they’d been contacted.

Of all the current candidates, Gregory Sanders was the perfect choice. Rejected and cast out by his family, Sanders was alone. This he’d found the night before when he’d followed Sanders to his favorite bar. Disguised as an out-of-town businessman, he’d bought Sanders a few drinks and waited until the man blubbered his sad tale. Sanders had no one. So he was perfect.

Clicking Gregory’s contact button, he zipped off his standard e-mail, confident in the steps he’d taken to mask his own identity, both physical and electronic. By tomorrow, Greg would accept his offer. By Tuesday, he’d have a new victim. And a new scream.

He pushed away from his desk and stiffly came to his feet, rubbing his right thigh. Damn these Philly winters. The pain was bad today. Apart from the sheer thrill, his art accomplished another important benefit-while he painted, he could forget about the phantom pains for which there was no treatment. No cure. No goddamn relief.

He’d reached the door of his studio when he remembered. Tuesday. The old man’s bills were due on Tuesday. Paying them was a necessity. As long as the mortgage and utilities were paid on time, no one would wonder where the old man and his wife had gone. No one would look for them, which was the way he wanted it. He walked back to his computer. He’d be busy with his new victim on Tuesday, so he’d pay the bills now.

Dutton, Georgia, Sunday, January 14, 2:15

P.M.

“I appreciate you coming so quick, Daniel.” Sheriff Frank Loomis threw a glance over his shoulder before turning to unlock the front door. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

Daniel Vartanian knew the observation was fair. “He’s still my father, Frank.”

“Uh-huh.” Frank frowned when the lock didn’t budge. “I was sure that was the one. I’ve had this key since the last time your folks took a long vacation.”