Dave Zeltserman - Blood Crimes Book One

A rifle barrel poked him in the forehead, interrupting him. He let go of Carol and blinked dumbly at the bartender, who stood rigid with the stock of the rifle against his shoulder and one finger tensing on the trigger.

“Leave the lady alone.”

“Hank, what the fuck you doin’? This ain’t none of your business.”

“Fuck you it isn’t. Now get out of here!”

“What, you gonna shoot me, is that it, Hank? You that fucked up in the head?”

“If I have to, Duane, I’ll do it happily. Now get the fuck out!”

Duane grinned savagely, his eyes brightening and showing a mix of bemusement and fury. “You should know better than to fuck with me, Hank. Be seeing you around, dumbass.”

Duane reached for Carol as if he was going to touch her cheek, but the bartender poked him hard between the eyes with the tip of the rifle barrel. Duane lost his footing and stumbled backward, all the while grabbing at his head. He checked his palm to see if he was bleeding, saw that he was and his eyes flashed with rage. He pointed an accusatory finger at the bartender. “You are one dumb fuck. If you think this is over you’re nuts.”

The bartender lowered his rifle so it was aimed at Duane’s crotch. “You better just leave before I make a gelding out of you.”

Duane took a couple of hurried steps away, then turned to show Carol an obscene gesture he made with two fingers and his tongue. After that he slipped out the door. The bartender’s hands shook as he put the rifle back under the bar. His skin color had dropped to a milk-white.

“Was the rifle loaded?” Carol asked.

The bartender looked sick to his stomach. He nodded.

“Too bad you didn’t shoot that asshole.”

“Yeah, I probably should’ve.” He showed Carol a queasy smile. “I think you could use a drink, huh?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He poured Carol a shot of tequila on the house and pulled on his lower lip as he watched her drink it.

“It probably wouldn’t be a bad idea for you to leave before he comes back,” he said. “You want I should call you a cab?”

Carol shook her head. “I’m staying only a couple of blocks from here,” she said. She reached out and touched the bartender’s arm, all the weariness in her face fading into a kind of melancholy. At that moment she was absolutely breathtaking. “Thanks for being my protector.” She slid off the barstool and headed towards the exit. The room went silent as everyone in the place stopped to watch her. The bartender broke the silence by yelling out to her that he wanted to call her a cab. “That psycho’s probably out there waiting for you,” he said.

“I’ll be fine,” Carol told him.

“Let me at least walk you home then.”

“That’s really not necessary, but thanks.”

Carol waved to him as she left the bar.

She knew the bartender was right, that Duane would be out there waiting for her. She had done this enough times to know that, and besides, Jim’s intuition with these things was almost never wrong. She walked briskly away from the bar. It didn’t take long before she could feel Duane’s presence and imagine the soft padding of his running shoes as he raced to catch up to her. Good. This was what Jim needed before he could feed and, just as badly, this was what she needed. She needed to be brought back to that moment of helplessness from three years ago when that punk scumbag ripped off her clothes so he could bend her over and violate her. She needed that feeling so she’d have no remorse for Duane, and more importantly, so she could enjoy what was going to happen to him.

When she reached the next alleyway, Duane emerged from the shadows and rushed forward, overpowering her. He dragged her into the darkened alley. His filthy hand covered her mouth and muffled what were half-hearted screams for help. If he listened more carefully he would’ve realized the noises were more of a hysterical laugh.

“You fucking bitch ho’,” he whispered, his lips against her ear, his breath hot and smelling like spoiled cat food. She fought hard to keep from throwing up. She put up only a token resistance as he dragged her deeper into the alley and whispered to her all the things he was going to do to her, how he was going to leave her for the rats after he was done and how that shot of tequila was going to turn out to be the most fucking expensive drink she ever had a guy buy for her. This was what she needed to hear to get the white hot rage burning inside. She needed to hate this piece of shit enough to be at peace with what was going to happen. Some bleeding hearts would argue that what she and Jim were doing was entrapment, but fuck them. She did nothing to warrant this animal trying to rape her and worse, and if it wasn’t her it would’ve been some other woman being victimized. Fuck him, fuck everyone who might shed a tear over what was going to happen to this piece of scum, she was going to love every second of what was coming.

It came fast. Duane had thrown her to the ground and was pulling his foot back to kick her in the head when the bottom half of his face exploded into a pink spray. There was nothing left-mouth, jaw, chin, all of it gone. He fell to the pavement like a sack of guts. Carol watched as Jim emerged from the shadows. He bent over Duane’s mostly dead body and used a knife to slit Duane’s throat and drain the dying thug’s blood into a bucket until it was half filled. Just as Carol needed to be brought back to her place of hate and rage, she knew that Jim needed his victims to be predators, and just as importantly, he needed to save her from them. As long as these were bad men stopped in the middle of preying on the weak and innocent, he could justify what he needed to do to survive. Carol watched stone-faced as Duane turned into a corpse, and as Jim satisfied his hunger.

Jim stayed sitting on his haunches long after he finished feeding. He wiped the blood off his face with a towel that he had brought, then remained motionless like some sort of stone gargoyle. After minutes of this, he asked Carol if she were okay.

She nodded, said that she was.

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“Just a few bruises. I’ll live.”

“He almost kicked you,” Jim said glumly.

“But he didn’t. You stopped him before he could.”

Jim nodded, still looking glum, still unable to face Carol.

“I heard the things he whispered to you. I’m so sorry.”

Carol’s face tightened as she was brought back to just a few minutes before. She bent over the dead man’s body and searched his pockets, then counted the money she took out of a tattered and stained billfold.

“All he had was thirty-seven dollars,” she said.

“That’s too bad.”

“Fuck. Yeah it is. We’re going to run out of money in a couple of days.”

“I’ll get us more.”

“I’ll help you.”

He frowned, shook his head. “No need for that. I’m not putting you in any more danger tonight. I’ll do it myself.”

Carol didn’t argue. She knew it would be pointless. Jim stood up, still avoiding looking at her. She reached toward him and took hold of his face with both her hands and forced him to look at her. This had become a ritual for them. After every killing, he’d be overcome with a sense of worthlessness. Seeing him vulnerable like that would only stir up her emotions and make her want to do anything to ease his pain. She was never more attracted to him than right after a killing.

Reluctantly, he met her eyes.

“You did what you had to, Jim,” she said, repeating the same mantra that she did after every killing, but still with only genuine love and caring and feeling in her voice. “He was nothing but scum. He was going to rape another woman before he got interested in me. You stopped him from hurting me. He’s not worth suffering any guilt over, no more than if you had killed a rabid dog.”