The Acceptance Read online

  “True.” Bending at the waist, she jerked off the man’s ridiculous mask, saw a face gone slack in near death, and said, “I don’t recognize him. You?”

  Shaking his head hard, Mort said, “No.” He looked at Gaby. “Who’s Carver?”

  “No one important.” She used the mask to clean off as much of the blood and gore as she could. To the naked eye, the knife looked spotless. The naked eye wasn’t good enough. Soon as possible, she’d do a thorough job.

  She slid the weapon back into her sheath.

  “You should probably go,” Mort told her.

  Not a bad idea, really. As he punched in 911, she asked, “What will you say?”

  “That I couldn’t see much, but after the fight broke up and a body was on the ground, I figured I’d better call.” He held up a finger, and spoke into the phone. “Hey, yeah, I have an emergency. Yeah, a guy’s been stabbed. He’s hurt real bad, might even be dead.”

  Gaby marveled at the lack of emotion in his tone. Sure, he’d screamed out during the attack. But after that, he’d quickly gathered himself.

  The Mort she used to know would have been a nervous wreck after witnessing an altercation that resulted in a limp, bleeding body.

  This Mort took charge, accepting that some things were inevitable—and necessary.

  After giving the police their general location, Mort disconnected the call.

  He’d impressed her, and it took a lot to do that these days. “Thanks, Mort.”

  “Thank you. For coming back. For being my friend.” He turned solemn, distraught, far too grave. “Thank you for doing what others won’t. What they can’t.”

  “If you get maudlin, I’m smacking you.”

  The corner of his mouth kicked up, and for the very first time since meeting him, Gaby thought he might not be such a slimy-looking little guy.

  Confidence, control, changed his appearance as much as a summons changed hers.

  “No, I won’t,” he said. “But I’ve thought about you a lot, Gaby, about the burden you bear.”

  She reared back, threatening him, and Mort laughed before holding up his hands in surrender. “Fine. I know you don’t need my thanks. Now go before they get here. And make sure you scrub that knife clean.”

  Bossing her? He really had changed. “I know what to do.”

  Silent, he walked beside her toward an oppressive alley no doubt filled with more human vermin. “We need to know why Carver wants you dead.”

  What the hell? Gaby glared at him. “Wrong, Mort. We don’t need to know anything. Go back to your place and visit with your girlfriend. Forget about this.”

  His sigh was loud enough to send a rat scurrying away. “Gaby—”

  “I can take care of myself, and you know it. As for Carver, you can leave that numb-nut to me.”

  Drawing back, Mort stared at her with disapproval. “You know why he’s after you, don’t you?”

  Good God. Bossing, questions—was there no end to his intrusion? “You want me to go, or stick around to chat with the cops?”

  Frustration put back his scrawny shoulders. “Go. But, Gaby? Promise you’ll come to see me again.”

  “Yeah, sure. Eventually.” It wasn’t a lie. She’d be back.

  After she wrote the rest of the newest Servant novel.

  And had a little one-on-one chat with Carver.

  And met again with Luther . . .

  “Damn,” she said, only half under her breath, “having friends can be a pain in the ass.”

  Mort smiled, lifted a hand to wave, and when she was almost out of range to hear, he said, “I love you, too, Gaby.”

  She nearly tripped over her own feet.

  A masked man with a pipe hadn’t fazed her.

  Mort’s affection, on the other hand, scared her half to death.

  Chapter 4

  Oren travelled up the clean, wide street to the stately mansion. Unlike the area he’d just left, in this community the crime rate was almost nonexistent. Money had its uses, and in these aloof environs it ensured privacy and well-being, forming the perfect purlieus to the atrocities committed in the basement of the mansion.

  Oren unlocked the front gate with a passkey and, forgetting himself for only a moment, practically skipped up the long, paved walkway to the curved stairs leading up and into his lavish world.

  Beneath the high, covered porch, no light penetrated, and he let the giggles escape. Before long, he’d have a new one—but for now, he’d make do with the slut they already had.

  Except for prominently displayed paintings and sculptures, the cavernous foyer was empty when he let himself in. To his left was the massive formal dining room. Aunt Dory sat at the end of the long mahogany table, nursing a whisky and talking to herself.

  Oren detected blood on her hands, and worry wormed through his deranged giddiness.

  What had the stupid cow done now?

  To his right was the study, and through the open door, Oren saw Uncle Myer sprawled in a leather chair, his close-cropped graying hair standing on end, his shoulders slumped. He wore only dirty boxers, gaping open to expose his withered member.

  Lip curling, Oren let the rage boil. God, he despised their ignorance and slovenly ways. They sickened him—but they were his cross to bear.

  And they afforded him the life he craved. The power. The salacious immorality.

  Neither of them made note of his entrance, so he ignored them both and went through the family room to the kitchen. Taking the elevator down to the unused servant’s quarters, his anticipation bloated. He neared the deep bowels of the magnificent stone house, but heard no sounds.

  No whimpers.

  No muffled pleas for mercy.

  Only a silent peace filled the air, and buzzed like annoying gnat in his brain.

  By the time Oren reached the basement, his heart punched a fevered crescendo against his ribs, so hard that it pained him. Nearing panic, he vaulted out of the elevator, rushed through the game room, and burst into the extra storage area.

  He drew to an inflamed halt.

  Eyes wide and unseeing, mouth agape in a now silent scream, the lifeless body of the woman hung in an obscene sprawl from tightened restraints.

  Bruises mottled the body.

  A trail of semen splattered her white thighs and belly.

  Oren swallowed back bile and disgust. Almost by rote, his expression affixed in loathing, he walked past the body to the wall where multiple devices of torture hung in disarray.

  Stupid bastards couldn’t even put their tools away properly.

  Without quelling the odium he felt for his family, he stared at a clamp, a knife, various prods and whips . . . and settled on a short, vicious crop. He turned with steely resolve.

  When he reached the upstairs again, he saw that Aunt Dory hadn’t moved.

  He paused in the doorway, letting his rage ripen. As he calmly entered the dining room, prepared to dispense with his own form of justice, she finally looked up.

  At first, her muddy brown eyes went to his clothes, before leaping back to his face. Would she dare mention his garb?

  Of course not.

  “Now, Oren . . .” Voice trembling, she looked at the crop.

  Fat people lacked speed and agility and she couldn’t quite get out of her chair fast enough. “It wasn’t my fault! I didn’t mean to—”

  The crop landed across her shoulders, and that felt so good to Oren, so satisfying, that he drew back and landed another, and another.

  Her screams exceeded the punishment, bringing Uncle Myer rushing in.

  “Oren!”

  Seeing the depraved man he called “Uncle” by need, only incensed Oren further. He turned his back on Dory. Myer’s flaccid and overused cock hung out from open unwashed boxers.

  A perfect target.

  Uncle Myer backed up, but not fast enough. The crop lashed across his lap, cutting into exposed flesh and causing a dehiscent burst of blood and screams.

  Uncle Myer fell to his knees. He
curled both hands over his privates, but that only allowed Oren to lash his vein-riddled hands, his rawboned arms.

  Between his aunt and uncle, the cries were deafening. Breathing hard, detesting the shrill assault on his ears, Oren threw the crop across the room.

  “Now,” he snarled in accusation, his voice nowhere as deep as he would have preferred, “we have to dispose of the body.” He looked at Dory. “Tonight.”

  Her tears mingling with the snot shining on her upper lip, Dory said, “But, but shouldn’t we wait until—”

  Fury spun Oren toward her, and he kicked out at her bulging ankles, her padded shins.

  “Wait?” he screamed. “You want to wait?” He kicked her again, and she fell from the chair in gargantuan array. “You know how dead bodies start to stink. If she stiffens up, it’ll be twice as hard.”

  “Stiffen up? But . . . she just died.”

  Killing her would only cause Oren more grief, so he reined in the desire and tugged on the long, unleashed length of his hair. He didn’t like his hair loose, but at times like this—as in other times—it served its purpose. “It only takes a couple of hours for it to start, and by tomorrow morning she’ll be in a complete state of rigor mortis. Then we’ll have to wait for the proteins in her muscles to decompose. It could take several days.”

  Dory blinked at him in horror.

  “Do you want a dead, rotting corpse around here for days, Dory?”

  She looked so stricken that a sick thrill ran through Oren.

  His mouth curled. “Maybe I should put you in the basement with her. In the wine cellar. You could watch the process and maybe then you’d remember it.”

  Going white, Dory whimpered, “Oh, Oren, no . . .”

  “Of course you’re right,” Uncle Myer said, showing a semblance of gallantry as he tried to come to his wife’s aid. “We’ll do it tonight.” As he spoke, he examined his now swollen and cut member. Seeing the abuse inflicted on the old shriveled appendage, his mouth trembled.

  Oren felt small satisfaction at their suffering. But not enough. “Both of you, get downstairs and bundle her up in an old blanket. I’ll decide where to dump her.”

  Dory audibly gulped down her relief. “Did you want to . . . change?”

  “No. We shouldn’t be spotted, but just in case, better that I be seen like this.” He pushed his hair from his face. “Uncle Myer, you’ll drive. Put her in the trunk of the car in the garage.”

  “Of course.” Myer headed for the elevator.

  Built under the house and abutting the storage area, the garage gave them the perfect exodus. No one would notice anything other than a family heading out for a drive.

  As his imbecilic relatives left him, Oren paced, formulating his plans.

  He’d need another body right away.

  Already, he shook with the need to dominate, to prove his mastery.

  And there was no one here, no one to accept his superior will. His throat burned at the loss, at the anger festering inside him. But he couldn’t kill his relatives. He needed them.

  He’d once been a child on his own, passed from one house to another. It had been unbearable. Suffocating.

  When they learned of his inheritance from his father, his aunt and uncle had come quickly enough.

  And just as quickly, Oren had discovered that they were just as sick and twisted as his mother had been. They were weak, perverted, and they made the perfect façade. He could do as he wished with impunity, and no one would ever know.

  No one.

  The river. Yes, perfect.

  That’s where he’d take her. Let the hungry carp and wide-mouthed catfish feast on her destroyed flesh. In the less savory neighborhoods, he could access the river away from houses, away from humanity.

  He’d have to watch out for vagrants and criminals, but he’d take a gun for protection.

  Aunt Dory, when threatened, proved an adequate shot.

  Thinking of Aunt Dory again spurred his discontent with their excesses. He hoped they both bled. He hoped they hurt ten times more than he was hurting.

  It’d be a good lesson for them.

  It was no more than they deserved.

  Rubbing the back of his neck, trying to ease the tension, Oren went to the basement to supervise. He instructed Uncle Myer to wash and dress properly, just in case they were spotted. He told Aunt Dory to fix her hair and dry her tears. There was no time for self-pity, not for the likes of them.

  Within an hour, they were on the road. The headlights of the black Mercedes cut through a dense fog clinging to the roadway. A timorous sliver of moon quailed behind thick gray clouds. Dory and Myer shared pointless chitchat from the front seat, with Myer driving.

  In the backseat, closest to the corpse compressed into the cramped trunk space, Oren rode in silence. He pressed his back firmly into the seat, imagining how the body had gotten unnaturally twisted in order to fit, getting closer to it, relishing the nearness.

  It gave him some small solace, a taste of dominance, but not enough.

  He needed another tramp.

  Tomorrow.

  Nothing could get in his way. Not even the skinny bitch with the spooky, perspicacious eyes.

  After a writing marathon that ended with several completed chapters and filled her small room with the actuating scents of ink, paper, and idealism, Gaby stowed her tools in the special storage box she’d procured for just that purpose. The lockbox, fashioned to withstand fire and attempts at theft, held her treasures in the safest manner possible to one like her.

  Though she’d been locked away in her room all day, writing without consideration for breakfast or lunch, no one could guess why. No one could know that she translated heinous reality into a fictionalized account of her pathetic life.

  She was Servant, the female lead in her graphic novels. Romanticized surely, softened and more heroic, more human—just as normal people insisted their idols be. The series had proven mega-popular with the underground crowd.

  And then it had proven popular with everyone.

  No one realized that Gaby wrote and illustrated the stories. That she was the stories.

  Far as she knew, no one even suspected her of being more than a homely, lonely, antagonistic bitch.

  Except Luther.

  Glancing out the window, Gaby saw that the day had melted away. He would be visiting her soon.

  Intrusive bastard.

  Real-life hero.

  Gaby closed her eyes, despondent. Had Luther insisted on seeing her today because, as he’d said, he missed her? Or because he distrusted her?

  Perhaps both?

  Edgy with conflicting emotion, Gaby tucked the lockbox into a camouflaged niche carved into her box spring, and straightened her covers. As she exited the room that was as circumscribed as her existence, she double locked the reinforced door. With her privacy secured, she headed out into the public hallway.

  The motel served as a safe place for assignations all day long, but at this time of early evening, things were just starting to heat up. Gaby heard faked moans, unenthusiastic laughter, and the more distinct sounds of flesh slapping on flesh.

  She paused, watching the lewd displays happening in the stairway, down in the foyer, in an open room. When she’d first moved to the motel, curiosity had kept her watching.

  Now, there was nothing new for her to see.

  Sex, bought and paid for, lost its luster early on.

  The more she observed, the more sadness infiltrated her soul.

  Tuning out the acquainted sounds of business, she decided to station herself on the middle floor where she could keep an eye on the girls until Luther’s arrival. No need to sit out in the heat. When a cop showed up near a whorehouse, it caused a buzz; she’d know.

  Putting in her tiny earphones and turning on the digital audioplayer, Gaby settled back against the peeling wallpaper.

  She enjoyed the music Luther had given her as a gift. She never tired of listening to it. So she could hear any cries of dist
ress, need, or intrusion, she kept the volume low.

  Usually the music lent her a strange sort of equanimity, lulling her, quieting her turbulent disquiet.

  Tonight, her thoughts raged.

  Residue from yesterday’s conflict?

  Gaby dismissed that thought almost as soon as she had it. Mort would tell her later if the man survived, and even if he didn’t, she couldn’t care. The more she accepted her duties, the less they staggered her.

  The man had wanted her dead. He’d likely killed before.

  The strength of his muddy, convulsing aura exposed his laziness. The rotted black holes added an indication of severe imbalance, both in morals and mental ability. The man was a bottom-feeder, and if he passed, the world would be a better place.

  No, she didn’t care. More likely Carver’s audacity caused her tension.

  How dare that bastard hire another to have her snuffed? He was such a chicken-shit moron.

  For underestimating her in such a big way, Carver would pay.

  Maybe. If the mood struck her. If not . . .

  Distracted from her ruminations, Gaby watched a suited, middle-class man climb the stairs with Bliss, one of the younger hookers.

  Bliss didn’t belong here, but then, who did?

  No one.

  Yet here they were: Gaby; the hookers who’d accepted her; the pimps who tolerated her; the men who, thanks to sickness, debauchery, loneliness, or misguided emotion, sought them out.

  And Luther.

  God knew he belonged here least of all.

  He came through a need to right wrongs, to prevent injustice.

  To visit her.

  Her jaw tightened. Looking like a painted angel and chatting like a magpie, Bliss climbed the stairs with the man’s hand held in hers. He wore an anticipatory smile on his smug face.

  When they neared Gaby, she ensured the john felt her gaze; he stiffened in alarm.

  Gaby didn’t give a shit.

  She wanted the slimeball to feel her warning.

  Hurt Bliss, and you’ll pay.

  Gaby was . . . partial to Bliss. Maybe because of her young age. Maybe because Gaby knew her better than she knew the others.