Jack Kilborn: Serial Uncut

Something crashed to the floor, and through the door came the sound of a desperate struggle, something banging into cabinets and walls, and then the meaty thud of hard punches.

Bryson went quiet, but there was still movement inside the bathroom. After a minute, the door opened, and Luther walked out smiling.

“Come see,” he said.

Lucy hurried over to the open door.

Bryson lay unconscious on the floor, hog-tied with zip-ties, and a ball-gag in his mouth.

“Nice work, Luther,” she said.

“You should’ve seen his face. He sat down on the toilet to take a dump, and just as he was starting to notice all the blood, I swept the shower curtain back and had Mark Darling waving to him. Good thing he was on the toilet, ’cause he shit.”

“Can I have my straight razor back?” Lucy said.

Orson glanced down at her. “Of course. But you know we aren’t just going to kill him right away.”

“Why not?”

He smiled. “Sweet, Lucy. So much to learn.”

Richard opened his eyes fifteen minutes later, naked and shivering. The balls of his feet just barely touched the dead man sprawled beneath him across the shower tile. His wrists were stretched far above his head, the zip-tie between them hanging from an anchor bolt that had been screwed into the ceiling. A giant ball had been wedged into his mouth.

Orson sat across from him on the toilet. Lucy stood beside him, and Luther sat on the surface of the sink.

“I just want to thank you again, Richard, for taking the time out of your busy schedule to sit for this interview.” Orson smiled and looked at Luther. “I think we should let Lucy go first. Okay with you?”

“As long as we get to stay in here and watch. Lucy?”

“What?”

Luther patted a red Craftsman toolbox. “I know you have a straight razor, but if you’d like to borrow anything in here, you’re welcome to it.”

“Look at you,” Orson said. “Sharing.”

Lucy saw Richard’s eyes bug out when Luther opened the box. Hers did too. “What in the world?”

“I collect ancient surgical tools.”

She lifted out a long cylinder with six tiny blades at the end. “What is this?”

“It’s called an artificial leech. It tears a superficial wound in the skin and creates a vacuum to suck up the blood.”

“It looks fun.”

“Oh, it is.”

She set it on the countertop and pulled out another tool. Richard’s bladder let loose.

“That’s in my top three,” Luther said. The metal of the instrument was dark brown with rust and looked to be several hundred years old. It had handles at the end, that when pulled apart, made the other end open wide. “It’s called a cervical dilator,” Luther said, “but it works beautifully on gentlemen as well. It fell out of use, because it typically just tore the insides apart, as you’ll see.”

She pulled out a strange-looking knife.

“For circumcisions.”

What looked like a pair of pliers, but instead of metal grippers, had a needle at the end.

“That’s called a hernia tool. I know it looks cool, but it’s kind of hard to use. Here, let me show you my favorite.” Luther reached into the toolbox and withdrew a long metal tool with a gently curving shaft. “This is called a lithotome. Shaft goes up the anus and then you squeeze the handle and a blade comes out on a spring release.”

“What was it used for?”

“To cut the bladder to release kidney stones.”

“Oh, this looks wicked.” She pulled out a hollow metal cylinder with circular blades at one end.”

“That’s a scarificator. Used for bloodletting.” He grabbed another tool. “This is a tonsil guillotine.” And another. “This is a trephine for skull drilling. Here’s a vaginal speculum, and these are hemorrhoid forceps.”

The toolbox was empty now, a veritable horrorshow on display on the bathroom sink.

“I dream of coming back as a Victorian doctor,” Luther said.

Orson laughed.

“Decisions, decisions,” Lucy said, reaching for the lithotome.

“It’s sad how he keeps passing out,” Lucy said.

Luther was holding a bottle of smelling salts under Bryson’s nose.

“Yeah, you’ve got to be careful,” Orson said. “The biggest buzz-kill is when they lose too much blood. They just go into shock and die, and that’s it. Superficial cuts are key.”

Richard jerked back into consciousness and started to scream again through the ball-gag.

“These aren’t ideal conditions,” Orson said. “Of course, no matter what, we can’t take the ball-gag out of his mouth. What I’m afraid is going to happen is he’s going to throw up and choke to death.”

“I wish I could hear him scream.”

“Me, too. It adds so much more.”

Six hours later, they washed Luther’s surgical tools, left the remains of Bryson hanging in the shower, and walked out of 1428 for the last time.

It was almost nine o’clock and many of the conference attendees had already left, the lobby much quieter now.

Orson bought Luther and Lucy dinner in the restaurant downstairs, everyone happy for the moment, a quiet contentment settling over the meal.

“When do you guys leave?” Lucy asked.

“First thing tomorrow.”

“Can I come with you?”

“No.”

Lucy felt a lump swelling in her throat. “Don’t you like me?”

“Of course,” Orson said. “But I can’t take you with me, I’m sorry.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“That’s for you to figure out. Are you going home?”

“No. And my car’s booted. I only have a hundred and fifty dollars and my guitar case.”

Orson reached into his pocket, opened his wallet, pulled out a roll of bills. “Here,” he said. “This should get you started.”

Lucy thumbed through the money. Almost five hundred dollars.

“Thank you,” she said, but the sadness was still there. “How am I supposed to get anywhere? I don’t have a car.”

“You could hitchhike,” Luther said.

“That’s dangerous.”

“You’ll have to be careful,” Orson said. “Although, I have a feeling, it’s the poor people who pick you up that we should be more concerned for.”

Luther laughed. “You need to get your hands on some painkillers. Oxycodone. Something hard-hitting that you can drug people with. That’s the only way you’ll be able to overpower someone bigger than yourself. And let’s face it. Everyone’s bigger than you.”

“Seriously.” Orson reached across the table and touched Lucy’s hand. “You have to be careful. You have to learn to read people. One day, you’re going to meet someone out there like me and Luther, only they may not be so hot to take you under their wing. They might rather hang you up in a shower.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“How?”

“I won’t trust anybody.”

“Good.”

Lucy squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Orson,” she said. “I’m glad I met you. You too, Luther.”

Luther smiled. It was still scary, but for the first time, he didn’t look like he was thinking about killing her.

They walked Lucy through the lobby and out the revolving doors of the hotel. Bellhops were stacking suitcases on luggage carts and hailing cabs.

“You could stay one more night,” Orson said.

“Thanks, but I’m ready to go.” She wrapped her arms around Orson and squeezed him. “I’ll never forget you.”

He knelt down in front of her. “You’re a special girl, Lucy. You know what you are, and you’re not afraid of it, and I admire that. I admire the hell out of it.”

She turned to Luther and shook his hand, then lifted her guitar case and walked away from the hotel, out onto the sidewalk into the night.

Lucy had walked ten blocks before the first pair of headlights appeared in the distance.