Allan Leverone - Mr. Midnight

So in reality, his plans only required some minor tinkering. Rather than making it quick with the old broad, if there was any time left after finishing off the girl, he would take his time and have a little fun with Mommy Dearest as well. It seemed only appropriate, just on the off chance the younger one was telling the truth about the familial relationship. He had meant it when he said his biological mother was responsible for his horrific upbringing. If she hadn’t thrown him out like yesterday’s trash, he wouldn’t have been adopted by his psychopathic father and willfully unseeing mother and permanently damaged.

It made perfect sense.

The young girl had stopped trying to soften him up. It was obvious she had finally reached the conclusion that there was nothing she could say to change his mind about what was going to happen here. Her eyes were closed and she seemed terrified but resigned to her fate.

In some ways, that was a bit of a disappointment. Milo liked it when his victims struggled. It increased his arousal because it demonstrated his dominance over them, thereby making the experience even more enjoyable.

At least for him.

There was one advantage to this new development, though. Less struggling meant the process would take less time, and although he would normally have preferred to go slowly and do the torture right, the dead cop cooling in the doorway changed everything. He would soon have lots of company.

In fact, he was a little surprised more pigs weren’t here already. With all that had happened since his arrival here in Everett, Milo realized he had completely lost track of the time. It seemed as though it was moving simultaneously fast and slow.

He picked up his duct tape and unrolled a decent-sized strip, then wound it around his “sister’s” ankles. She barely struggled and didn’t utter a word, and for a moment Milo wondered why. It seemed this goddamned girl was keeping him constantly off-balance and he hated that. Then he realized she was still half expecting to be raped, and the act of tying her legs together rather than apart had come as such a relief that she wasn’t sure how to react.

Whatever.

She would find out soon enough that being raped would have been a walk in the park compared to what she was about to experience.

He ripped off another even longer strip of tape and secured her ankles to one end of the couch, winding it over her legs and around the armrest. He slapped the silver surface to ensure proper adhesion and allowed himself a moment to soak in the sight of his next, and arguably greatest, triumph.

She was a good-looking piece of meat, much more desirable than Rae Ann the Schoolgirl Hooker. More desirable than any of his previous playthings. For one thing, she appeared fresh and girlish, rather than used-up and cynical as all the prostitutes did, no matter how young or new to the game they were. And while his college girl victims weren’t hardened and cold like hookers, none of them had ever possessed the kind of worldly self-assurance and dignity this girl seemed to. It was a real turn-on.

As an added bonus, she was perfectly proportioned; he could see that now with her body stretched out in front of him, her attributes barely concealed by her bra and tiny black panties.

He ran his eyes up and down his “sister’s” form and licked his lips slowly, not because he felt any sexual arousal from the sight of her near-nakedness, but because he knew it would confuse and terrify her. It was all part of the game, designed to keep her off-balance, and even though she had been the one keeping him off-balance so far, things were about to change.

Winking at her with a sly smile, he rose from the couch and strolled to the window to check on the scene outside the house. He knew he should be rushing to get the job completed and get the hell out while he still could, but he was just having so much fucking fun that he couldn’t bring himself to hurry.

He pulled the heavy blue crushed-velvet curtain to the side—Milo always thought his adoptive mother had had horrendous taste in home furnishings but this broad’s house put her to shame—and sucked in a breath reflexively. Police cars were scattered all over the development, parked haphazardly, and cops were scurrying around like ants at a fucking picnic. A big, armored SWAT van was idling at the curb halfway up the street.

The moment he appeared at the window a couple of the blue-uniformed motherfuckers did a double take and raised their weapons. They seemed so surprised by his appearance they were temporarily frozen in indecision. He let go of the curtain and it slid closed with a thick swish of material.

This was not good.

It happened again as the crazy bastard with the knife—Cait couldn’t bring herself to think of him as her brother no matter how hard she tried—stalked across the room to look out the front widow. That little push, the signal that a Flicker was about to start, tried to nudge its way inside Cait’s head once again.

She closed her eyes and concentrated, and as she had done previously, repelled the Flicker before it could begin. She had bigger issues to worry about right now than dealing with a mind-movie.

But something had been bothering her, unspoken but felt, hanging around the edges of her consciousness. She had been so busy trying to stay alive she hadn’t been able to pin down what it was, but now that Milo had stepped away for a moment, it crystallized in her mind: why the hell was she suddenly manifesting abilities concerning the Flickers that had never existed before? Did it have something to do with the proximity of her mother, who had similar abilities? Was it somehow related to the sudden appearance of her brother, the Human Psychotic Break himself?

Either way, Cait succeeded in blocking the Flicker, an important consideration since Milo’s mood seemed suddenly to have changed. He raced across the room toward her, his hurried steps in stark contrast to the almost languid way he had approached the window.

Something was happening, and it was happening outside.

The police! The police were here! What else could it be?

It made sense. The murdered officer had been out of contact for a while now, and the Everett police must have figured out that something was wrong. Cait’s heart skipped a beat and she began to allow herself to hope that maybe, just maybe, they could still escape this nightmare alive.

Then Milo passed by the couch, not even glancing at her. He strode hurriedly into the kitchen and grabbed the last of Victoria’s kitchen chairs, then turned and dragged it across the floor, placing it next to the couch. He held the knife tightly in his right hand as he eased into the chair, a look of grim determination on his face, immediately dashing Cait’s irrational hope of rescue. He was still in control, and it was clear he intended to stay in control until he finished whatever he came here to do.

She forced herself back against the cushions, levering her body into the V where the couch-back met the seat, pushing with her bound ankles against the armrest, trying to escape him.

It was stupid even to try, she knew that. There was no way she could simply disappear into the couch like the magician’s helper in some third-rate Vegas floor show, but rationality was beginning to slip away. The knife was big and long and razor-sharp, and the glittering deadly blade appeared mammoth as he displayed it mere inches from her face. Sickening smears of blackish maroon blood still stained it, left over from the butchering of the police officer. The killer had wiped the blade but had done so hurriedly and incompletely.

Cait strained against the back of the couch and Milo laughed, the sound simultaneously brutal and mocking. “Going somewhere?” he said.