Dark Side of the Cloth by Brooklyn Cross
The night had finally come. Although, in reality, it had only been a few weeks since Tim met him outside his church and unwittingly signed his own death warrant—this night felt like it took forever.
Dean had kept his word to Tim and had him come to the church every week to let him think that he was trying to help him. It was amazing what people will spill when they think someone is their friend. Dean had gotten Tim to let him into his home, the town’s scrapyard, and he even sipped a tea while he listened to the man go on about his grocery list of atrocities. At that moment, Dean had fantasized about stabbing him in the eye with the sugar spoon as he offered “reassurance.” The small torture paid off, as it gave him ample opportunity to inspect the capture zone and any possible complications. He’d also had enough time to prep Tim’s final resting place.
Dean’s web was spun, so now it was simply time to capture the fly.
The Hummer purred as he pulled over to the side of the curb. He truly loved this vehicle. It was his first gift from The Righteous when he joined. The Hummer alone would have sold him, let alone all the other perks. Dean slipped out of his high-tech vehicle and left it around the corner from Tim’s scrapyard. Dean became one with the shadows as he jogged to the back of the fenced-in area of the business. There was one spot that the barbed wire surrounding the top of the structure was broken and curled back. He looked up at the hole and then jumped and scaled the fence.
Once up there, he could tell the space at the top was not quite big enough for him to crawl through without ripping his clothing or skin, but his arms would fit. So instead, he gripped the top of the fence bar tightly and kicked off from the wooden part of the fence, and pulled his body into a handstand, turned around on his hands, and fell forward until his feet hit the other side. He had never been so thankful for his years of gymnastic training.
Moving hand over hand, he made his way down the fence line until he saw a safe place to land. He turned himself around, and then with a tucked roll that would have impressed any gymnastics coach, he nailed his landing with a soft thud. He rose from his crouched position and smiled.
Dean opted not to use his night vision. The yard lights provided more than enough illumination to navigate. Piles of cars, trucks, and other junk that were here, were stacked in tall rows. They provided the perfect cover while he maneuvered toward the double-wide that Tim called home. The stench of cat piss and oil was strong, and he stopped as he caught the whiff of decaying flesh. He knew that smell too well. It was not unlike the stench of the mass burial sights he’d come upon while deployed.
What have you been up to, Tim?
Pulling a blade from the sheath on his chest Dean followed the scent. It grew stronger with every stride. The rank stench would’ve made anyone else unaccustomed to death toss their cookies. He rounded the end of one of the stacks and stared at a pile shrouded in darkness. Dean knew without any light that it was a pile of bodies.
He flicked on a small flashlight, the beam giving him a clear view of a mass grave of another kind. The furry pile that was almost as tall as his six-foot-three frame looked like a creature from hell. He squeezed the flashlight tighter as it flicked over the bodies, his mind trying to piece together where one body started and the other ended. Small cat bodies of every color were broken and mutilated, skinned with eyes missing and limbs mangled. Some were badly decayed, and others were fresh and still dripping on the dirt ground, while others were charred beyond recognition.
Okay, so my initial assessment was wrong.
“You are one sick fucker Tim,” he mumbled.
Flicking off the small light, he stalked toward his ultimate goal. It was easy to tell that Tim thought he was safe behind his tall wall and gate with the barbed wire top. No video cameras were present, and the locks and chains were pathetic. They were for show, not for protection. Even a noob could have waltzed in here if they had been brave enough to try.
The living space and kitchen area were dark, Dean peered in the window, and there was no sign of Tim asleep in a chair or lurking in a dark corner.
Not that he was one to talk about lurking. The corner of his mouth lifted at his own sick brand of humor. He completed a swift once over, circling the home, and found the location of his target in the bathroom.
At least he’s not on the shitter.
The lock on the front door was old and was easy to pick. With a soft click, he turned the handle and poked his head inside. The steady stream of the shower could be heard clearly along with what he assumed was supposed to be singing. Whatever the fuck it was, it was better suited to be the background noise for the dead cats out back.
With stealth that only comes from years of training, he made his way down the hall, making sure to avoid all the squeaky areas he’d mapped out on his ‘friendly’ visits. Steam drifted out from around the partially open bathroom door. The white wisps creating an eerie glow as it floated down the hall seemed to cling to the paneled wood covering the walls. The hot moisture accentuated the constant overpowering smell of mold that lingered in the house.
Dean paused with his hand on the door as Tim stopped singing. He held perfectly still, prepared to abort and wait for Tim to be in his bedroom, but a moment later, the strange mix of show tunes and cat wailing started once more. Reaching behind his body, Dean grabbed the zip ties, his leather-clad hand flexing into a fist as he squeezed the thick plastic tight. With his arm coiled back and his muscles poised to strike, he inched closer to his unsuspecting target. Tim’s head was back under the spray, the song he was singing reaching an ear-piercing crescendo that made him want to stab himself in the eardrums.
Dean let out a soft whistle, and Tim turned to look his way. There was a brief pause, and the distinct intake of air as Tim realized he was no longer alone. Dean let his fist fly, and blood splattered the frosted shower curtain. The impact threw Tim backward into the wall, sending the bottles in the shower flying before he crashed the bottom of the tub. Dean whipped the flimsy plastic out of the way and had to hold back the laugh caught in his throat. The man looked ridiculous, naked, on his ass with one leg flung over the side of the stained porcelain tub.
“Father?” Tim groaned as he rubbed at the lump Dean saw forming on his head.
“Not this night.” Dean cracked the man across the face once more, and he was out cold.
Dean slowly straightened and shook off the sprinkling of water that had been hitting him. He stood a few moments to admire and watch his prey silently sleep as a calm washed over him. He flicked off the water and stared at the still steady drip that fell from the tap. Just another atrocity to add to this man’s list—water waster.
Ripping the shower curtain off the cheap rings, he wrapped Tim in the makeshift body condom, securing it and the occupant inside with the zip ties. Dean dried the floor and made a quick cleanup of the blood before heaving the sack of dickless meat over his shoulder. Tim was his most prized find yet. Not that he really wanted to find worse than this piece of trash, but knowing that this man had managed to kidnap and murder six little girls over the last twenty years was officially never going to hurt anyone ever again—shit just didn’t get any better than this.
Dean walked right out the front gate like he fucking owned the joint and around the corner. The only one around to see any of this was the grey tomcat that sat across the street on the curb, his tail twitching as he watched the show.
“Don’t worry,” Dean said to to the cat. “He won’t be hurting any more of your pussy.” Dean smirked as his own joke as he slipped behind the wheel of the Hummer. He pulled the black vehicle onto the dirt road and drove further into the darkness and place that would be Tim’s final stop.