Page 39 of Right Number, Wrong Man

COLT

The sour stench of blood and scorched flesh thickens the air. I drink it in with heavy breaths and it burns on my tongue like bourbon, filling my mouth with the delicious taste of agony. Sweat trickles down my neck, my reddened fingers clutching bloody garden shears.

Casually, I kick Justin’s pinkies across the floor and they roll into a puddle of his blood. I laugh. Looks like mini sausages in ketchup, which reminds me of the hole in my stomach.

I don’t know how long it’s been. Minutes. Could be hours. The buzz of adrenaline makes me high, blurring the passage of time.

Justin groans. It’s all he’s capable of. First there was anger. Then begging. Now he’s barely holding on.

Precise cuts litter his bare upper body and arms, placed for maximum pain while causing the least damage. Blood oozes from a few deeper wounds where I drove my hunting knife in to the hilt, avoiding organs. Basic anatomical knowledge is crucial for torture.

His legs sag sideways, letting me see the burned soles of his feet. The skin bubbles and bleeds, hanging off in shreds, and in some spots it’s entirely gone, baring the universal truth of humanity:

Underneath our skin we’re all the same : desperate, quivering meat .

I wipe my forearm over my upper lip, smirking.

Torture is messy, sticky, and exhausting—at least when you do it right. It’s honest, too. Probably the most honest human interaction on this planet.

When we’re in excruciating pain, our bodies have no capacity to put up an act. The suffering shatters the masks we wear, leaving raw flesh and an exposed soul. It forms a special connection between the torturer and the victim.

As the executioner, I have to drop my mask, too. I gotta free the sadistic beast trapped inside my bones, and damn, it was hungry today. It always is, but I’m not like Justin.

Unlike him, I’m in control. The darkest part of my soul serves me, not the other way around. I’m the master of my urges, but it feels good to let the monster out to play.

When Justin was still speaking, he mostly ranted about his mom being a whore and his dead dad.

He did have some lucid moments and admitted to spying on Hailey and Andrea’s conversation in the bar, using the information to look her up online and find out where she works.

Then he waited around in his parked car, watching and learning her routines before he made his move.

I set aside the shears and shock Justin with the defib unit. He convulses, startling into a strangled cry.

I pat his cheek. “Good morning, pretty boy. You almost slept through the finale.”

“I-I’m sorry…” he slurs. “I’m so sorry… Please, let me go! I promise I-I’ll leave Hailey alone.”

My boots stick to the bloodied floor as I turn to the table to retrieve my favorite tools. A box of thick, hypodermic needles.

I take one out, remove the plastic cap, and crouch in front of him. “Did you know that our fingertips have over 3000 nerve endings per square inch? That’s the highest concentration in the body. The lips and feet are close, but not quite.”

He whimpers at the word feet, his eyes flicking to the blowtorch on the table.

I chuckle. “Guess you found that out already. But can you imagine what’ll happen if I drive this needle up your finger? It’s astounding how much agony such an unassuming instrument can cause.”

Justin stammers as I grab his right hand. I flatten it on the armrest and set the sharp needle against the tip of his index finger. Applying slow pressure, I slide it into his flesh. He screams and screams and screams until his voice breaks and his head tips back.

This time, it takes two shocks to wake him. He gasps for air, his frantic pulse ticking at his neck. Rivers of sweat run over his temples, his pupils are blown and his gaze dull.

I shove another needle into his middle finger. He wails and I laugh in his face until he passes out.

I shock him again.

Another needle.

More electricity.

More needles.

Justin groans. “Ki—” he rasps, but his voice fails him.

“Didn’t your momma teach you to speak up?”

“K-kill me… I can’t—” He coughs, bloody drool running over his lips and chin. “Please… God, please… kill me…”

Satisfaction slinks through my chest. I heard him, but I tilt my head, touching my ear. “What did you say? ”

“Kill… me… please…”

“Do you know why you gotta die?”

“Because I-I killed… all those women and I wanted… wanted to kill Hailey, too,” he brings out.

I tap his arm with another needle. “And?”

“Because I insulted Hailey…”

I drop the needle and applaud, the noise echoing back from the bare walls. “Atta boy. There we go!” I take my hunting knife from my belt, pressing the tip under his chin. “Now ask again. Politely.”

“Kill me…”

“Ah-ah, you didn’t say please .”

He sobs. “Please, kill me… please… I?—”

I lower the knife and drive it through his heart. For a glorious moment, Justin’s features blur and I see Mike staring back at me. I smile, basking in that puffed up sensation in my chest and the knowledge that I personally ended the two men who hurt Hailey.

When I come to, Justin’s eyes are hollow. He’s not breathing.

A fulfilling tiredness expands through my exhausted muscles and my head hurts. Torture is hard work. I look down at myself, red spattered over my shirt and my jeans. My boots need a polish, too.

I open the basement door. “Could use some help with cleanup and disposal!” I yell.

Cody’s steps thud toward me as he strolls downstairs, holding two beers. He gives me one and I take it with an appreciative nod, draining half in big gulps.

He juts his chin at the door. “I heard the screams. Productive session?”

I grin. “Very. Did Hailey call?”

“No, everything was quiet. Evidence is gone, too.”

“What time is it?” I ask .

“Around three in the mornin’.”

I heave a sigh. It’s been hours, no wonder I’m all tuckered out. But there’s more to do.

Cody clinks his beer against mine. “To a job well done.”

We drink in silence for a while until we enter the basement together.

“The needles are still your favorite, huh?” he asks.

I quirk a brow and laugh. “God forbid a man’s got a hobby.”

“They’re a good choice.” Cody leaves his empty bottle on the table and gestures at two large plastic tubs in the corner. “I take it you have saws and acid?”