Blind Spot, CH 02 (Patreon)

I tighten my hand on the handle and pull. Pectoral muscles protest. A box lights up and I pay attention to it. There is a time to ignore pain, now is not it. This is about healing my injuries, not aggravating them. When my arm shakes, I slowly lower it, and the weights rests with barely any sound on top of the others. I give my arm a few seconds to rest, then pull up again.

Healing never proceeds as fast as I prefer. That is when this box is the most active, demanding that I rush through the exercises in the delusion that it will lead to quicker healing. Because I am already weak and distracted, I must be more careful.

I end the last set with the same slow movement. My shoulder and chest hurt, but it is the pain of pushing their limits, not breaking them. The strain has left me sweating, so I shower.

Under the cool water jet, a box brings memories up, tries to get others to break my control. Bart pressed against me as I wake. His back arched in ecstasy as he bounces on my cock. My hand around his throat and his legs around my waist, fear and pleasure in his eyes as he can’t tell if I will stop before he suffocates. He can’t tell, because I don’t know. I need him and I hate him for it. I want to remove him from my life and I want to protect him from myself.

Only he would hate me for that.

Three days working with him and two days sharing a bed and I have no idea what I want regarding him.

I have never allowed myself to push the young men I’ve used to sate my needs so far, so close to death. Possibly, if I wasn’t compromised by withdrawal, I wouldn’t have with Bart either, but I did. And Bart… loved it. He doesn’t simply want to be hurt; he craves it. Even as he is about to pass out, believing I hate him enough for not having fled when I screamed at him, his cock is hard, throbbing in time with his pounding heart.

I consider letting him die, as his trashing slows, as his eyes flutter shut. The moment triggers a box that sets off another and the conjunction is dangerous. The power I feel, the fear that triggers.

He is barely conscious as I let go of his throat, flipped him, and shove him against the wall to fuck him. As he becomes more conscious, it is to my whispers of all the ways I will hurt him. All the horrible things he will suffer if he dares come back to my home. That if I see him again, I simply might not have the self-control needed to keep from ending his life.

He cries out, his ass tightening around my cock, and I keep thrusting. The trail of dried cum is still on the wall by the door. When I came, it was hard and long. The things he does to me, that he makes me want to do to him. It is a new box, linked to his and others. It demands to be let loose, and I am tempted to let it.

I should be concerned.

The first prison I was in had many books on psychology in its library. I read all of them once I understood how lacking in personal interaction my upbringing was. There are many sections in many of those books on craving violent sex, the causes, the danger. That Bart wants it speaks to something broken deep within him.

It should concern me.

All I want is to make use of it.

I end the shower to the impotent rattle of the box, trying to elicit a reaction in my body. It may make me crave things, but I remain in control. My body will only react when it serves my purpose. Release isn’t something I need when I am home.

The boxes quiet as I dry myself, then walk to my workshop.

On the wall next to the computer are pencil drawings of Bart, his face, his eye, a profile. His hand holding a Tanto, dripping with blood. They are an attempt at purging him from my mind. A failure as I keep gazing at them, remembering the man, the way he killed, the way he moaned.

He will be how I die.

I pull my gaze away and onto a box containing folders. Looked through them for the appropriate one, take it out. The name on it is Frederick Cole. He is a reporter in Las Vegas known for covering anything taking place in the Southwest. I have never met him, but Asir found me everything I needed to impersonate him, and it is all in this manila envelope.

I insert the USB drive and play the audio file as I read his history, both professional and personal. It is unlikely questions about either will come up, but I will be ready if they do. I speak as I read, matching Frederick’s timber and accent. Once I am ready, I run the Voice Over IP program and set it to spoof Frederick’s number. Then I call the Phoenix police headquarter.

I navigate the automated system to the media representative. Something is off with the sound. I take out the auditory tester from the drawer, for once I am done with my calls.

“Phoenix Police Media relation,” a woman answers. “My name is Victoria. How can I help you?”

“Hey Victoria, this is Fred Cole, from the Vegas Sun. I’m wondering what you can tell me that’s new about the explosion at the storage company located at. Give me a min. Where did I put that?”

“Washington and thirty-second?” she provides.

“That’s the one, thanks.”

“That was last week. There’s a press release on our website.”

“Read it, but it’s been a week. You must have something new. Who did it and why?”

“The investigation is ongoing,” she says in a professional tone. “You know I can’t say anything else. Once we have something, we’ll put out a release and the site will be updated.”

“Come on, at least tell me if you have leads? My viewers want to know that things are happening. I don’t need details, just generalities. I’ll settle for a confirmation that there are new leads.”

Her sigh is tired. “We do have leads. There are questions as to what the storage contained.”

“And suspects? You have to have someone in mind.”

“I can’t comment on that and you know it.”

Code for ‘we have nothing’. Even the hint of a suspect, and it would have been ‘we have persons of interest’.

“I hear rumors it wasn’t the only storage to be destroyed. Can I get a comment on that? Are they related?”

“No comment.”

They have no link. I expected as much. My security measures are designed to remove any trace of my existence. Even the explosive will trace to a known, but currently inactive, criminal. He is inactive because I killed him.

“You’re a doll.”

I disconnect and set the VoIP to spoof a new number, out of Seattle. There is no envelope for this number. The information on the man I will impersonate I acquired myself, as I used him to help me hunt down a rapist. Those two weeks were fun. Not Bart fun, but fun nonetheless.

The mother found me. She didn’t want justice. She tried to get that for her little boy, but they failed him. I was her instrument of vengeance. What she paid me was nowhere near enough for what she wanted, but it was everything she had. A better man would have let her keep it and avenged her little boy, anyway. He was eight when he was raped. The age I was when I was stolen from my mother.

Her instructions were simple. She wanted the man who had done this to suffer as her boy had. She wanted it to be so that he’d never get his cock up once I was done with him.

It took two days to track him to Seattle and seven to have everything in place for once I captured him. The man I will impersonate was instrumental in my success, not that he knew it. His access is why I caught him so quickly once I was ready.

Kidnappers are not the only ones to find storage lockers practical.

I tied the rapist to a sawhorse and fucked him for five days. He trashed, he cried, he screamed into the ball gag. I didn’t care. This wasn’t about pleasure, asserting power, or even release. Only the contract. I only stopped once he no longer reacted to what I did.

I moved him to the old tubs I brought in, cut off his cock and balls, which went in a jar of Formaldehyde, then opened his throat. Once he was dead, it was the usual lye treatment for him.

The mother threw up when I handed her the jar. We were in her house, so I didn’t care. She didn’t ask for detail. She told me to leave.

I call the police department again, then the code for central dispatch.

His voice is clear in my head, his smile, his laughter. His screams of pleasure.

“Dispatch,” a tired-sounding man answers.

“Hi, this is Detective Victor Barstone, from the Seattle department. Badge number eight, twenty-two, six, fifty-eight, nine.”

“That’s an interesting way to give me your number,” the man sounds more awake.

“Is it? No one said anything about it before.”

Victor loves playing that angle. It puts the other person off balance. Makes them think they’re the odd man out for calling him out on it.

“What can I do for you, Detective?”

“Is Detective Moya in? Dylan Moya? I need to talk with him about someone he’s dealt with.”

“Give me a minute.”

The omnipresent muzak of the waiting line, then—

“Moya,” a man says, his Hispanic accent audible in the one word.

“Detective Moya, this is Detective Victor Barstone, Seattle PD. I’m hoping you can help me with something.

“Sure thing, Vic. What’s up?”

Interesting, there is something in the way Moya enunciates that sounds more educated than he aims to portray. Caltech is my guess.

“I’ve got this guy in holding, Varban Smagula. Reading his sheet, I came across your name about an assault three years ago. You remember processing him? If not you, anyone can give me details about this guy that didn’t make it to the report?”

“Oh, I remember him alright. Wish I could forget him, but…. Well, can’t talk about stuff I can’t prove, right? Where did you say you were?”

“Seattle.”

Moya whistles. “So that’s where he’s and his buddies are hiding.”

“What do you mean?”

“We had a scuffle here last week, only days later, we get wind of him, his boss, and a bunch of thugs drove out of town. They haven’t been back. Last report we have of their convoy was in the mountains. They must be really scared if they’re all the way to your city.” Moya hmms as he types. “Any chance you’ve come across his boss, Keith Riddle?”

I pause long enough to give the impression I have thought it over. I add typing on the keyboard. “No, the name hasn’t crossed our system, why?”

“He’s wanted here in relation to that scuffle.”

“So he had a record?”

“Nothing recent. It’s just questions at this point, although I know he was involved. The fact we never caught him doesn’t mean he’s clean.”

“Okay, you think dropping his name will be enough to get Smagula to open up, or is there anything more pertinent I can use to get under his skin? I need him to answer my questions.”

Moya hesitates. “What is this about?” there is curiosity in his voice, but also caution.

The conversation to this point supports what Asir has gathered on the man, but I add caution on my side too, both because Victor would and because I can’t afford to have this officer ask after Victor once we are done.

I lower my voice. “I have two missing girls as of three days ago. No one’s looking at Smagula, yet, but I don’t want to wait until there’s a third one. I need something to rattle him, get him to crack and slip up so I can get to them now when there’s a chance they’re still alive.”

Moya lets out a string of curses in Spanish. The sounds change as he walks, the bullpen receding, then the echo of a hall. A door opens and closes. The only sound is his breathing.

“Okay, here is something you need to know about Smagula. He used to work for an import-export company out of Mexico years ago. His papers claim he’s American, but they don’t stand up to scrutiny. I looked into the guy after I processed him. Talk with colleagues in Mexico and the company he worked for was is owned by Juan Manuel Fernan. Mention that name and see what drops.”

“I’ve never heard of him. What’s the relationship?”

“Fernan’s company is a cover for drug smuggling, at the very least. Smagula used to be tight with him, if what I was told was right. Word is Fernan put him in Riddle’s organization. He used to be important enough to be handed over like that, I think, to ensure Riddle did what he was told.”

“Used to be?”

The silence stretches. “That dust-up I mentioned, the one that sent Riddle and company running. The story down here is that it might have been a reprisal for something. That Riddle bucked his orders and Smagula didn’t do his job. Maybe switched loyalty. The story’s confusing, but whoever was there was clearly sending a message.”

“So this Fernan might still be after Riddle, and Smagula would be scared of him?”

“Maybe.” Moya sighs. “Scare of him, yes, that’s certain. After them? I don’t know. Everyone’s pushing that this was reprisal, and yeah, someone sent a message, but I spoke with the girls that were set free, and what they said about what happened doesn’t line up with Fernan bringing his people back under control. Why would he let them go? Most of them were already broken. Even if Fernan wasn’t into selling sex, they’d be easy money and guys like him don’t turn down easy money.”

“If it isn’t Fernan, then who do you think it is?”

“Heroes?” the sound of his teeth slamming together tells me he tried to bite the word back. “You probably think I’m sick.”

“I’m a cop, Dylan. I can’t say I’m okay with vigilante justice.”

“Yeah, I guess you can’t.” He sounds defeated.

“Doesn’t mean I have to think the same way.” It is something Victor would say. He is a just man. He wouldn’t accept a false story just because it’s convenient. If he was on this case and caught me and Bart, he would arrest us, but he would treat us with respect for Bart freeing those people, not as the mass murderers that we are.

“Look, Vic. Be careful. Riddle’s going to want his people back and he’s dangerous. The storage where the girls were held was Riddle’s. He’s that kind of person. He’s probably the one behind those missing girls, not Smagula.”

“Trust me, Dylan. When I come across this man, he will not go free.”

“Good. I don’t want your city to experience was they created here.”

“We won’t. You have my word that Riddle will never make a home out of Seattle.”

I disconnect and leave a message online for Asir to go into Moya’s account and alter the number I called from to the one for the phone server they established for me to use. The number of one digit off from Victor’s number, and the answering message is identical.

I set about doing a search on Juan Manuel Fernan, but I’m interrupted but a file from Asir. I asked them to look into Bart. This is what they found.

The read is quick, with mentions that they suspect a skilled hacker has sanitized Bart’s real history. What stops me first is Bart’s name. Alexander Bartholomew Crimson. Why does he hide who he is?

Then I read about who the Crimsons are.