Ridley Pearson - Cut and Run

She was neat and tidy. And dead before she knows it , he thought.

He heard her picking up the pieces of the cup and dumping them into the trash. She ran water, probably for a sponge. She wouldn’t see the cut in the screen, for his technique was to work the very edge, by the frame. With it tucked back into place as he’d left it, she’d have to push against the screen to reveal the damage. The cup falling would remain a curiosity. She’d blame it on wind, despite the weight of the cup and the air being still. She’d blame it on vibration from the dishwasher, though it was not running. People wanted to believe the easy explanations. If she had any fear, it was just now warming her. He hoped it might be pulsing strongly by the time he confronted her-he could work a person’s fear like a potter with wet clay.

He hurried into the living room and drew the gauzy drapes shut, glad that on the television the forty-something, flat-chested instructor continued her smooth-voiced program. On the screen, the woman currently held both legs apart suggestively. Paolo was at the height of excitement, like an athlete before the starting gun.

He moved fluidly across the room, placing his back against the wall that joined the kitchen, awaiting her coming through the doorway. He was hungry now. He felt electricity sparking in the air. I can smell her , he realized.

Almost time.

It always ended too quickly. He hoped this time to drag it out as long as possible. It wasn’t every day he did a woman, much less one as young and pretty as this one. One had to count one’s blessings.

The woman stepped back into the small living space, prepared to reengage in her yoga, when Paolo collared her around the neck with a choke hold. The elbow and forearm grip cut off both her wind and the blood to her head. He lifted her off her feet as she kicked and struggled, putting up with her flailing elbows. He drove a knee into her back and, maintaining the choke hold, slammed her down onto her tailbone. He managed to secure her left arm and, releasing the choke hold, handcuffed both hands behind her back. He set the choke hold again to prevent a scream and dragged her into the center of the room, turning up the volume on the TV with his free hand.

Her nipples spiked under the leotard and he responded with an urge to have her. He grew excited by her frantic breathing, her heaving chest, and her legs slapping together. He decided to enjoy her before he killed her, or at least before she fully expired.

She shook her head side to side, eyes wide as saucers.

He abandoned the choke hold to cup her mouth and muffle the upcoming scream. At the same instant he used the razor to sever the leotard’s shoulder straps, cutting into her skin as well. The pain from a cut of a sharp razor takes several long seconds to register.

A moment later, the trickles of blood began. He made no effort to expose her chest. Black and gray straps sagged down but the tight leotard held to her. He felt her shudder, the waves of fear quaking through her, and it pleased him. Saliva ran down the hand that covered her mouth.

“Say good-bye, Alice.”

“I’m not Alice,” the woman moaned. “I have money… a car… anything you want…”

A flash of heat filled his face. He would expect her to claim she wasn’t Hope Stevens, but Alice? Could he possibly have the wrong woman? He spun her around to face him, and she must have known by the fact he didn’t hide himself from her, what he ultimately had in mind. He struck her below the V of her rib cage and threw her back and onto the floor. “You say one word…” He hoisted the pink-edged razor to indicate his intention. He withdrew the photo and did a quick comparison. He looked for scars from implants or plastic surgery; he compared only the relationship of the eyes to the ears, not the look of them.

The eye color was wrong. Way off. He scrambled forward, pinning her beneath him as she writhed to be free. He liked the feeling of her warmth beneath him. Of her bucking to be free. The leotard slipped lower on her chest, a breast revealed. He grew hard as he steadied her. Then he reached toward her face, held her head in a tight grasp, and carefully spread open her left eye with his fingers, searching for a pigmented contact lens.

No lens … Not possible.

He felt tormented by the possibility he’d screwed this up.

“I’m not Alice… I’m not Alice,” she repeated, in shock now, barely conscious. This was how he liked them. But the situation was not good. He tried to maintain his focus.

Her face was blotchy, snot all over her chin, tears oiling her cheeks. He used his bare hand to clean her up.

“Steady now,” he cautioned. “You wouldn’t want me to slip.”

Again he produced the razor. As he lowered it toward her, she froze, obeying him. He cut into the fabric at her cleavage, and the stretch fabric came open like he’d lowered a zipper. This revealed a gray sports bra that he quickly cut and peeled back, exposing both breasts now. Her chest glowed an angry red.

“Much better,” he said, knowing the power he gained by working against embarrassment and shame. Her nipples and areolas were dark brown going on black, puckered, and nut hard. He felt some drool on his own chin; he was salivating.

She raked her head side to side, her eyes locked onto the bloodied tip of the razor he held in his right hand. By now her shoulder cuts would be stinging. By now she understood what he intended.

“Tell me about Alice. This is her apartment.” He knew enough to discern the spark of recognition. “Talk to me.” He lowered the razor again, pulling on the cut stretch fabric to continue the line he’d started. That line led down. He exposed her navel, a ridge of carefully trimmed pubic hair. The less of the leotard, the more of his arousal. He wasn’t sure how long he could contain himself.

“Mrs. Blanchard!” the woman coughed up. “Neighbor… Mrs. Blanchard. Mentioned, Alice… Alice… Alice and her daughter. ‘Two peas in a pod,’ she said. I… am… not … Alice. Please, God! Don’t do this.”

Paolo had a thing about God’s name being invoked during his work. It seemed everyone summoned up the courage to get religion when a razor flashed before their eyes. Paolo had a grim relationship with God that few would understand, but one that caused him deep resentment when his victims begged for saving.

He cut through the rest of the leotard, careful not to nick her. He didn’t want her all bloody and dirty there. The leotard now stretched in a long V from armpits to the dark tangle of brown hair.

Her scent enveloped him, and he briefly swooned, like a patron in a pastry shop. This was fear. Pure fear. Heady. Heavenly.

The woman said, “I’m subletting. Alice… This Alice… IT’S NOT ME! I’m not her.”

“Shut up!” He backhanded her, meaning it more for himself. He contemplated the ramifications of his mistake. He loathed the idea of disappointing Philippe. He would not call to inform him of bad news. And what of this child? What child ? What daughter? He’d been told nothing of this, knew nothing of this. He drew a line at doing anything bad to children. He’d been one himself.

“Mrs. Blanchard…” the woman beneath repeated. “Talk to her. She knew Alice.” The welt rose on her right cheek where he’d struck her. The dull look in her eye told him that she understood this was quickly coming to an end.

The television instructor was talking about “deep stretches,” and he had a little deep stretch of his own to give her.

His mind made up, he cut off a piece of the leotard, balled it in his fist, and crammed it into her open mouth as she summoned a protest. She tried to bite him, but to no use. Her eyes wild, they opened to where he could see the crown of the eyeball itself. Again he noted no contact lens, nothing to explain the wrong color. He felt dizzy, both from excitement and confusion.