Макс Коллинз - No One Will Hear You

“Love is important, Mark. Do you love me?”

She pulled down the skirt, taking the blouse with it; she stepped from the puddle of clothes, wearing nothing beneath — just her sleekly naked, hairless form. A blonde vision. She would leave the wig on. He might not like her really naked...

She said, “You wouldn’t want me to feel unwanted , would you?”

She cupped her breasts, stepped near the bed, and watched as his thing slowly rose. Like when the Frankenstein monster roused himself from that slab.

She got on the bed and knelt between his spread legs and began to stroke his half-hard member.

Even not fully erect, it was bigger than the old man’s. She watched, impressed, as it grew and grew the more she touched it.

It was very hard now. Throbbing in her hand.

She let it go, slapped it away, and stormed off the bed.

“That’s not love,” she said.

She watched as the thing wilted, almost comically; she could hear the slide-whistle sound effect in her head: WHEEEE-ooooop .

He was begging with his eyes again. Before, it had touched her somewhere deep, distant within. Now she felt merely disgust.

“Agent Rousch, just as a courtesy, since you must have many questions, I will brief you on the rest of our method of operation. Why not? It’s not like you’re going to share it with anybody.”

Now he strained manfully at his bindings and his chest filled as he screamed behind the duct tape, yelled bloody murder, but for all that effort, the result was more annoying than likely to attract attention or help. Kind of like when a guest in the hotel room adjacent is playing the TV too loud, and you’re trying to sleep.

“When they get as excited as you were? Up to a minute or so ago? I tell them I’m going into the bathroom... to get ready for them. You do know we drug them? Roofies? Sure. Anyway, a couple of minutes alone in the dark and the guy is so stoned and horny, he doesn’t even know whether the person who comes back, in the dark, is me or not... Allow us to demonstrate.”

She rose and walked over to her brother at the camera, the FBI man’s bugged eyes following. She pulled off the blond wig and covered her brother’s bald head with it. Arranged it, getting it just right.

Don Juan stepped forward, arcs of the woman’s wig swinging like scythes. He was naked, too, which their special guest had not realized before, the camera and its position making that tough.

When her brother approached a victim’s bed, he had his naughty bits tucked back between his legs, as if he didn’t have any.

He would say, “In the dark, it makes me look like a girl. I can’t fool them that I’m you, if I’m swinging my meat.”

That always made her laugh. Always just killed her...

Billie Shears stepped behind the camera and assumed its operation. Her brother stooped, then rose — re-entering the FBI agent’s range of vision — with the garden shears gripped in two hands.

What a pleasure to finally be able to do a little camera movement, she thought, as she zoomed in on Rousch’s face .

His eyes were wide with terror. She panned down to his thing — little now, shriveled, limp as a morning glory at nightfall. She swish-panned to her brother as he stepped forward, oddly pretty as a sexless blonde, opening and closing the shears, their grating metal music sending the FBI man into a twisting, yanking frenzy.

She was in a wide shot, and glad she was, because it was very cool the way Rousch tried to look brave, his eyes glued to the blades as her brother closed them one last time and raised them over his head for the Aztec sacrifice.

When the closed shears came down, swift, hard, a diving bird, Rousch screamed into the duct tape. It was as though someone had died in a faraway place.

His body lurched with the impact as his flesh and organs were disrupted. The sound was like boots moving through mud.

Then Rousch gurgled under the gag and was gone.

She had caught the whole thing on video, though this production would probably not be sent to Harrow’s team — it would be saved for the special-edition boxed set. Bonus features.

For once they didn’t wait for lividity to settle in and make the collection of the trophy less messy. She rather wanted this to be a horror show for the agent’s colleagues. A splashy mess would be good stagecraft, in this instance.

And when they had finished with their production, and she had taken her trophy (her brother did the killing, but she collected the terrible toll), they packed up. One suitcase held everything, even the collapsible tripod.

Across the hall, they showered and — in wigs and nice clothes — exited the room, just another upper-middle-class couple out for the evening.

In the lobby, she found a quiet corner and used Rousch’s cell phone, which she’d taken, but not as a souvenir exactly. She thumbed through screens until she found what she wanted.

When she had the number, she dialed.

“Rousch,” Harrow’s voice said, “what’s up?”

“Sorry,” she said pleasantly, “wrong number,” and clicked off.

With a hanky, she wiped the phone free of prints, dropped it in a trash receptacle, took her brother’s arm, and they strolled out into a pleasantly warm California night.

You could see the Hollywood sign from here.

In a comfy plump leather booth at Willie D’s, Harrow and Choi were kicking back after a long day of, frankly, getting nowhere. The sports bar, a haunt of the Killer TV team, was off the lobby of the Deluxe Sunset Hotel just a few blocks from the UBC complex.

Both men were having after-burger beers when Harrow’s cell vibrated. Caller ID read ROUSCH, but the FBI man wasn’t on the line — it was a wrong number, a female voice.

What was a woman doing using Rousch’s cell phone? The agent was single, so it might have been a date who borrowed the cell and misdialed or something. But Rousch had been spending so much time on the case — much of it with Harrow and his team — when exactly had he had time to meet a woman?

Harrow was tempted to run upstairs and knock on the agent’s door — the FBI had booked their man into the Deluxe Sunset Hotel, for convenience.

Choi asked, “Rousch want something?”

“Wrong number.”

“Rousch dialed a wrong number?”

“Wasn’t him — some woman.”

“Maybe he got lucky.” Then Choi frowned. “But I don’t think so. Call him back.”

Harrow did.

“Rang once,” Harrow said. “Went to voice mail.”

“I don’t get it.”

“So he’s out with some gal, and she borrows the phone, hits redial or something and gets me, and now she’s made the right call, and she’s gabbing.”

“Gal. Gabbing. What are you, eighty years old? Listen, J.C., let’s just go upstairs. Knock on his goddamn door.”

“And if he’s in bed with her?”

“Then we embarrass his ass, and maybe get a glimpse of skin, hopefully not his.”

“And if he’s not in the room?”

“Then he’s not in the room. But at least we tried.”

“... You want to wait here?”

“Hell no. She might be cute. And the more effort I make to help you, the better chance you’ll buy the next round.”

Harrow grinned. “You win, Billy. It’s probably a fool’s errand, but...”

“But you got that cop tingle, right? On the back of your neck?”

Harrow nodded.

“Then let’s go. You packing?”

Harrow nodded. “You?”

“Always.”

Both had California concealed-carry licenses.

Soon they were at Rousch’s room — 832 — but Harrow noticed the safety catch wasn’t shut, the door slightly ajar, as if Rousch had stepped away to go for ice or something.