Matt Hilton: Cut and run

'The police have already been at the office asking about me?'

'I gave them a bum steer, but they're not idiots. They'll be back soon enough.'

'Did they give a reason why they were looking for me?'

'They wouldn't say, but I've heard word on the streets. It seems someone has fingered you for a murder in Ybor a couple days ago.' Rink held his breath for a moment. 'Someone took a punk hostage, beat the living shit outa him to teach him a lesson.'

'Can see how they drew the conclusion,' I admitted.

'Didn't end there, though, Joe. Whoever this guy was, he killed the guy's daughter right in front of his eyes.'

A sliver of ice wormed its way through my guts. 'And the cops think that was me?'

'They don't know you the way I do.' Rink was apologising for having raised the question earlier. 'Apparently the punk survived long enough to describe his attacker. He even told the cops his attacker's name.'

'My name?'

'Yup. The police don't know that you'd never harm the woman. They'll be coming for you.'

It was confirmation that the shooter had set me up, but he'd made a glaring mistake. He should have killed the man and left the woman as a witness. That would have been much more difficult to deny. Since leaving the military I've earned a name as a vigilante. I've gone up against some bad people, stopped them from hurting the innocent: but I don't make war on women.

'There are some cops who admire what you've done – not that they'd ever publicly admit it – but they ain't gonna let you go when they think you've murdered an innocent.'

Some cops. Like Castle.

But there wouldn't be a cop from Tampa PD – or from anywhere else in the country – who would be sympathetic towards me now.

I told Rink what had just happened down by Garrison Channel.

'Goddamnit! Why didn't you just put down your gun? We could've cleared this up in no time.'

'Couldn't do it, Rink. I'm being set up for something. For a start, the shooter would've known his plan was finished with. Probably he'd have just shot me dead.'

Rink cursed and ranted for a while, but he knew that I was right.

'The only way I'm going to put this right is to find him, Rink.' Giving him the registration number of the Ford, I asked him to check it out. 'It's most likely a stolen vehicle, but it's a start.'

'I'll get on to it. Y'know, I had a bad feelin' that somethin' was going down.'

'How's that?'

'Got a call from an old friend of yours, said he wanted to speak to you.'

'Who?'

'You remember Bryce Lang?'

How could I forget?

Somehow I had the feeling that things were only going to get much worse.

'Alisha! What's keeping you?'

Rickard's wife of two years peered out from the walk-in closet with just the right amount of fear in her eyes. 'I'm making myself nice for you, Luke,' she said, teasing a blond lock behind an ear, 'just like you asked.'

'What's the problem?'

'I… I can't find anything to wear.'

'Step out here.'

'But I'm not ready yet.'

'I won't ask again, Alisha.'

Alisha came out of the closet with one arm crooked over her chest.

'Take your hand away,' Rickard told her. 'I didn't spend thousands of dollars for you to hide yourself from me.'

Alisha allowed her arm to slip away. Unsure of what to do with her hands she toyed with the small bow on the hip of her low-slung Agent Provocateur briefs.

'There now.' Rickard smiled up at her from the divan, his eyes lingering on her silicone-augmented breasts. 'Pretty as a picture, Alisha.'

His wife smiled at him, but it was as false as the moulded smile of a mannequin. Her eyelids fluttered with restrained fear, because she knew what was coming. Rickard patted the bed sheet beside his naked body.

'Come here.' He held out a hand.

'I thought we were going out, Luke.'

'We'll go when I say. I had a busy day today and want to relax first.'

Alisha sat on the bed, her bare back to him. Rickard stroked a finger down her spine and he felt her shudder under his touch. Her anticipation could be heard in the quickening of her breath. Rickard's breath also grew faster.

'Please, Luke…'

'It's OK, Alisha.' He slipped an arm round her body and cupped one of her breasts. 'We can go out afterwards.'

He pulled her down quickly, rolling on top of her, holding her down on the bed beneath his body. Snagging a hand in her briefs, he tore the flimsy material aside. He looked at the tears on her cheeks and he shuddered with an anticipation of his own. Her terror was the greatest aphrodisiac he had ever known.

'What are you afraid of?' he asked as he pushed into her.

'Nuh… nuh… nothing…'

Rickard knew she was lying. But that was OK: it was what he wanted. The lie only made the truth all the sweeter.

Rickard had the ability to put fear into the hearts of women. It wasn't his looks, because his wavy hair, his deep-set blue eyes, and the athletic build of his body, had often proven the opposite effect. It was only when he got close to them that they realised they were in the presence of great danger. Usually at that point they'd come up with an excuse to hurry away from him, casting nervous glances in case he chose to follow.

But Alisha couldn't run away. She was his wife.

Ordinarily a man like him would forego marriage. But he'd desired something more than any whore or mistress could ever give him. He wanted someone who would be solely his. He'd found Alisha, charmed her, promised her a lifestyle she couldn't resist. He had married her in order to exercise the very power of ownership over her. That way he could do to her whatever he pleased.

Alisha was right to fear him. He was responsible for the deaths of three women. Not a large number when compared to some more notorious murderers, but enough to be getting on with. It was nothing to the number of men he'd killed, so really it was the wrong sex who seemed as though they could sense his essence. He'd often wondered if he exuded some kind of putrid auric light that only women could see. Many hours he'd spent in front of mirrors, studying his reflection, looking for what they saw. He'd never seen it yet. But he didn't doubt it was there.

'Look at me, Alisha.'

Alisha fought to blink the tears off her lashes.

'Do you see it yet?'

'No, Luke.' Alisha cringed under him, knowing what was coming. 'I don't see it.'

Rickard knew there was something in him that set him apart from other men. A need, a compulsion, a thirst for blood: whatever this driving force was he could feel it coiling inside his gut like a serpent, and it had been with him since he was a small child. He could feel it worming its way through his body, seeking outlet at every turn.

'I don't believe you. You must see it.' He slapped her across the face. 'See me, Alisha!'

Alisha cried out. So did Rickard.

Then he rolled away from her.

'Get cleaned up. And put on some nice clothes. We're going out and we're going to celebrate a job well done.'

'Yes, Luke.' She got up painfully, then shuffled towards the en-suite bathroom where she closed the door behind her. Rickard lay down on his back and listened to the sobs she tried to conceal with the sound of running water.

Rickard smiled at his reflection in the mirror on the ceiling. He was happy with himself.

People argued about the psychology of men who felt the need to hurt others. How had their urge to destroy come about? Nature or nurture? What if it was neither? Rickard had often asked himself. What if it was both? His nature was to kill, but he'd nurtured his skills to a point where he could do so with impunity.

But he was no raging serial killer.

Any fool could kill.

His mobile phone vibrated on the cabinet next to the bed.