The Feeder (12 page)

“Good luck,” he told me, “and I really mean that. But remember our offer. You wanna leave him, come work our track. That is, if you get out alive.”

“Thanks, I think,” I said, smoothing my hair. “I think I can handle Caleb just fine, but if you happen to run into him, tell him I said, ‘fuck you’, okay?”

The big guy chuckled, shaking his head. “Bitch has balls…” he muttered as the car sped away.

I rushed back to my motel room to figure out my new strategy.

He was a cop. Named Caleb. How did I find out his last name? What was it about that name? It seemed familiar but where had I heard it before?

I made myself a sandwich and stretched out on the bed to relax for a while as I replayed the day’s events in my mind. I turned the television on for some background noise. The local news was just starting.

Top story: another body had been discovered. It was a man this time and the corpse had been found in the ocean. Apparently he had been in the water for a while, providing a handy snack for sea creatures. Dental records had confirmed the victim’s identity: Louis Barton.

I sat up when I heard the name.

Louis? As in Louie? Could it be the same Louie I killed? How in the fuck did he wind up in the ocean?

I leafed through the phone book, just out of curiosity. Not surprisingly, there were dozens of Bartons listed in Los Angeles and some of them were named Louis or had the initial L.

It was the address that caught my eye: 9530 Egasuas Ave. I recognized it. I flipped to another section of the phone book.
Blue Moon Casting
. Same address, same phone number. It was the very same penthouse where I had slaughtered Louie a few weeks earlier.

But the occupant’s name was
not
Louis Barton.

It was Caleb Barton.

Caleb.

Louie was not tall, lean or angry like the man who had stormed out of the Dufferin. He was a medium height, soft-around-the-middle Hollywood wimp.

He was definitely no cop.

Caleb, on the other hand,
was
a cop and apparently a pimp as well – a pimp capable of striking fear into the hearts of even other pimps.

Caleb had the same address as Louie.

Caleb was Louie’s… roommate? Husband? They shared the same last name. Were they related?

I went to Camille’s suitcase and fished an item out of the side pocket – the silver Zippo lighter I’d scooped from Louie’s apartment. It was engraved with the initials,
CLB
. I’d been calling him Creepy Little Bastard in my head, after something I’d once heard on a wrestling show. I’d gotten so used to the made-up acronym that his real name sounded foreign by comparison.

Caleb Something Barton
.

Camille’s murderer was named Caleb Barton, and he lived with Louie.

And he was on the TV screen.

The man on television, expressing his grief over the death of his brother Louis was one Caleb Barton, according to the caption at bottom of the screen. He vowed to find the individual responsible and bring him to justice.

Detective
Caleb Barton was head of the Feeder task force and LAPD spokesman for the investigation. I’d seen him on the news before, following the White Surf murder and every other time a Feeder-style killing made the news. Until now, I’d had no idea I was looking at my sister’s killer. Now, I memorized every detail, every chiseled line of his Hollywood-handsome face. This was the man who would be my final victim. I knew his name and address.

I also knew why Louie’s murder hadn’t made the news. Caleb shared the penthouse with his brother. He had discovered Louie’s mutilated body and disposed of it by dumping it in the ocean.

He had not wanted the murder to be investigated at the penthouse. Why? It didn’t take me long to come up with a viable theory. The place was probably full of forensic evidence linking the apartment’s occupants to the other victims. Camille, for one.

It would have been too risky to allow any investigation to take place in the penthouse. Caleb had removed his brother’s body, disposed of it elsewhere and cleaned up the bloody mess behind the bar.

Caleb was the real Feeder. He had been controlling the investigation from the beginning, destroying evidence and withholding information to steer his peers away from the truth. He was aware by now that a copycat killer was imitating his style. If I had to guess, I’d say he intended to find this copycat to frame for all of the murders.

Not if I frame you first, you creepy bastard.

~ Chapter 16 ~

CLB

I’d spent the past few weeks preparing and I was as ready as I’d ever be for the final showdown with my adversary. My life no longer held any meaning other than this. Now that I’d found Caleb Barton, my solitary goal was to kill him or die trying. If I didn’t survive I intended to take him out with me.

After spending night after sleepless night following him, I knew his routine well. He worked four nights in a row and took four off. On his nights off he made his rounds on the street, collecting money from prostitutes and roughing up anyone who needed roughing up. Some nights he brought a woman home with him in his car, the same silver BMW I’d seen squealing out of the parking lot the day of Camille’s death. Other nights he came home alone and a woman would arrive about an hour later. Further investigation revealed that the women were escorts, ordered from one of several agencies he patronized.

All of the escorts who entered the apartment building came out alive a few hours later and some of them returned on more than one occasion. Apparently he used prostitutes on a regular basis and was not killing anyone at his home. He did his murdering elsewhere. Maybe he was using escort agencies to choose future victims – I didn’t know. Things had been quiet murder-wise, since the discovery of Louie’s body. I suspected Caleb was keeping a low profile in hopes that the copycat would strike again. He would swoop in like Supercop and save the day, arresting the elusive Feeder and solving the case.

I decided the best place to take him would be at his home, when he had things other than murder on his mind. The element of surprise could be easy to obtain if he was already expecting someone.

* * *

I confronted her as she was approaching the building and asked if she was the one the agency had sent. The girl couldn’t have been more than eighteen and I cringed at the thought of what he might do to her if he decided to ‘own’ her the way he had my sister. I explained that he had made other plans for the night but she would still be paid for answering the call. I asked her how much was owed and paid her triple, suggesting she take the rest of the night off.

I took a deep breath before stepping in front of the security camera and ringing the buzzer.

I wore a brunette wig for this mission. He was too familiar with Camille not to recognize me. I had gone shopping to choose the perfect outfit because Camille didn’t have anything suitable. I also didn’t want him to recognize any of her clothing. I wanted femininity to create the illusion of vulnerability along with function that would allow me to conceal what I needed to. The bulky, ruffled dress trimmed with pink ribbons, paired with white stockings made me look the exact opposite of a ruthless killer. The loose-fitting jacket fell seductively off my shoulders, allowing me to conceal my hands, among other things, inside the sleeves.

The knife was strapped to my back. I would have liked to have the gun as well but it was too risky. Caleb was a cop, trained to find concealed weapons on people. If he frisked me, he would disarm me of the obvious weapon – the knife – an accessory not uncommon to find on a prostitute. Hopefully he would not find the surprise I had sewn inside the ruffles of my sleeves.

He answered my ring and buzzed the door immediately without asking any questions.

The door to the penthouse was ajar when I stepped out of the elevator. I entered the dimly lit apartment.

Caleb sat on the sofa with a drink in his hand, dressed in nothing but a black satin robe. His feet rested on the glass coffee table – the same table from which I had picked up the silver Zippo lighter engraved with the initials
CLB
so many weeks ago.

“Come in and close the door,” he said. His voice was deep and gentle; sexy, even. He didn’t sound anything like a killer. He had fine features and dark eyes, very much like the ones I had carved out of his brother Louie’s skull.

I could see why my sister had found him attractive.

I strutted slowly across the floor and stopped several feet out of his reach, trying to stay in the shadow cast by the lamp’s soft glow.

“Hi,” I whispered.

His eyes traveled up and down my body, seeming to approve but he said nothing.

I might as well break the ice.

“What would you like me to do first, baby?” I asked softly.

He leaned back and let the robe fall away from his body, revealing a sculpted six-pack abdomen and a well-toned, masculine pair of thighs. He was gorgeous. I couldn’t help feeling a bit aroused in spite of the fact that I was there to kill him.

He was also aroused, as was evident by the large erection that lay against his taut belly. An open package of Viagra on the table suggested that he’d had a little assistance in rising to the occasion.

I ran my tongue seductively over my pink-polished lips.

“Damn, you’re hot. Why don’t I suck that big thing for you?” I offered.

Ew. Ew. Ew. I can’t believe I’m going to do this.

“Yeah… that would be nice.” His voice slurred and his eyelids drooped slightly. He’d already had a few drinks, from the look of him. “Get your ass over here.” He downed his drink and set the glass of ice cubes on the table.

I knelt before him, well aware of the vulnerable position I was putting myself in but there was no other way. It was imperative that I take control of the situation as soon as possible, before he got a good look at my face. It might be the only chance I had to use what was hidden in my clothing.

Even if it meant sucking his cock.

Time to take one for the team.

I inhaled to keep from gagging as I took him in my mouth. It was the first time I had ever touched a penis, without cutting it off, that is.

The silky-smooth texture of the skin surprised me. It wasn’t the way I’d imagined a foreskin would feel. After reading porno mags and listening to my sister talk about her exploits, I knew enough about giving blowjobs to fake my way through it. As I slid him in and out of my mouth I tried not to think about what I was doing and kept my goal in mind. I watched him out of the corner of my eye and listened to the sound of his breathing, waiting for the right moment. It didn’t take long in spite of his state of semi-inebriation. He had obviously taken the Viagra to prevent drunk-dick.

His breath shortened, his cock stiffened and he moaned, tilting his head backward and closing his eyes.

My target was in sight.

Both needles slid through the fabric of my sleeve, simultaneously piercing the skin of his inner thigh. I pushed the plungers of the syringes hard, emptying them into his flesh. By the time he reacted it was too late. His body was already absorbing the potent cocktail I had injected into him.

He leapt forward and grabbed me by the hair. Anticipating his reaction, I slipped out from underneath my fake head of hair and retreated to the other side of the room before he realized he was holding nothing but a wig.

He was alert now, and livid. He looked at the fake hair clutched in his fist, then threw it to the floor.

“What the fuck, you little bitch!”

I began to count in my head. The length of time it would take for an intramuscular injection to take effect was difficult to predict. I’d have to stall him until the injections took effect – refrain from killing him in my usual fashion while avoiding being killed myself. According to my closest estimate I would have to stay out of his reach for fifteen to thirty minutes before he slowed down. I had taken a huge gamble, knowing he would be mad as a hive of hornets after being stabbed in the thigh. I had no way of predicting how the added adrenaline might complicate things but I was about to find out.

“It’s nothing baby,” I soothed, “I just gave you a little treat,” I kept moving, keeping a piece of furniture between us at all times.

“Not without asking, you fucking cunt!” he roared, lunging toward me.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” I sang, dodging out of his way. He was already uncoordinated from the alcohol and I had no trouble evading him… so far.

Three minutes. Keep stalling.

“Please don’t be angry,” I pleaded, “I just wanted to make you feel good. It’s nothing – just a little Ecstasy. It’ll wake you up and make you cum like you’ve never done before.”

There was no Ecstasy in either of the injections I’d given him. One of the shots contained a little concoction I’d cooked up from the pills, Ketamine and heroin I’d found in Vinnie’s room. The other injection was a wild card. I thought I knew what would happen but it was only a guess. The second syringe contained 190-proof Everclear – pure grain alcohol. It wasn’t legal to buy anything stronger than 151-proof in California, but money talks. With a pretty face like Camille’s, it didn’t take me long to find a liquor vendor who had the strong stuff hidden behind the counter. I’d loaded the stuff into a pair of 5cc syringes and prayed that I would be able to get close enough to him to use them.

He chased me in a circle around the couch, stumbling and crashing into a lamp. The bulb flashed and then went out, further darkening the room. The fluorescent lighting over the bar provided the only light, giving the apartment the ambience of a nightclub VIP room.

Eight minutes and counting.

“Commere you shtupid whore!”

“I will, just as soon as you calm down a little, honey. Why don’t you have another drink? I need to use your bathroom.”

I ducked into the only room I could think of that had a locking door.

Safely inside the bathroom, I unsheathed my knife and stood ready, in case he decided to break the door down. I didn’t know what to expect from him at this point.