The Feeder (19 page)

I refused his offer of a third beer, explaining that I had to drive and I’d best get going before dark.

His mood instantly darkened.

“Yeah, well, whatever,” he muttered, “go, then. Nobody’s fucking forcing you to stay. I’ll take my dog.”

Wow.

This guy had some serious issues with the female sex. I didn’t want to give him the dog. I couldn’t kill him at the public campsite, even though we were the only ones there. He would be found too easily.

I kicked my flirt into overdrive. I flipped my hair over one shoulder and cocked my head to one side, keeping the painful Barbie smile on my face.

“Hey, I got an idea. Ya wanna go with me?”

“Where? To your cabin?”

“Yeah.”

Again, his mood changed, as if someone had flipped a toggle switch. This asshole was just too easy.

“Fuck, yeah!”

“I have another idea. Why don’t you pack up your campsite? There’s plenty of room at my place.”

“But I’ve already paid for it.”

“Pfft. Suit yourself. I’m just offering, is all.” I began to walk toward my truck.

That was all it took. Half an hour later, Pete’s campsite was dismantled and shoved haphazardly in his back seat. I drove my truck out of the campsite with Pete rumbling behind in his orange monstrosity.

~ Chapter 26 ~

The Cabin

The cabin was about a forty-five minute drive from the campground, thirty of which was on a dirt road that  snaked away from the main road into the wilderness.

My father had inherited the land and run-down log cabin from his father and had in turn passed it on to me. My father and I had worked together to refurbish the cabin, transforming it from a ramshackle hut into the finest in rustic wilderness accommodations. I was now the owner of the cabin, but I still had a tendency to think of it in terms of ‘ours’ because of all the work my father and I had done on the place together.

We had installed a freestanding woodstove for practical purposes but kept the old stone chimney and hearth functional for ambience. Using the nearby spring as a water source, we hooked up running water and installed a sink as well as a classic cast-iron clawfoot bathtub. The running water was cold only. The cabin had no electricity except for the gas-powered generator, which was only run for a few hours each night to chill the small freezer and charge batteries. We used the wood stove to cook and heat water for washing dishes. For the bathtub, we had designed a rather ingenious water heating system using some copper pipe and an electric water pump, the type normally used for outdoor fish ponds. The generator powered the pump, circulating the water in a continuous circuit through the copper tubing, which ran across the back of the woodstove. The stove heated the water as it passed by and was pumped back into the tub. It took about half an hour to heat a tub full of ice-cold water to a comfortable temperature. The pump could be left running during the bath to ensure a nice hot soak. The tub sat in one corner of the kitchen, separated from the rest of the room by a privacy curtain.

The surrounding area was known for its natural hot springs. I had made tentative plans to tap into one of them to create a permanent natural source of hot water for the cabin. I had been too preoccupied in the years that followed my father’s death to bring the plan to fruition. Maybe things would change now.

Although the cabin had running water, there was no flush toilet inside. It was another modification we had planned to make but my father had died before the plans had become reality. We had built a nice outhouse a short distance away from the cabin.

I motioned for Pete to follow me as I made my way to the cabin and paused to unlock the door. He sidled up beside me, much closer than I would have liked and gave me another of his dark, snaggle-toothed grins. I cringed inwardly at the invasion of my personal space, trying to ignore the smell of his breath and the whitish gunk that had accumulated around the corners of his thin, pale lips.
Yuck.
I couldn’t imagine anyone being able to kiss him without puking. I honestly did not know how prostitutes managed to do what they did, even without the kissing.

He followed me inside, still much too close for comfort and still grinning brownly. I still couldn’t get over the fact that the little creep actually believed he had a chance to score with the hot looking blonde who had inexplicably invited him to a secluded cabin in the woods.

I felt his hand brush my ass.

Oh no you didn’t. You did NOT just fucking
touch me!
I fumed silently. Touching me was, of course, punishable by death.

“Where’s Missy?” I asked, once again using the dog as a diversion.

“In the car,” he sighed impatiently.

“I’m going to get her,” I said, “I don’t want her out there. It’s not safe. Wild animals.” I ducked under his arm just as he tried to touch me once again.

Oh, buddy, you have no idea just how fucking dead you are.

I released Missy from her prison and put her on the ground so she could pee, then went back into the cabin with the puppy following obediently at my heels. When she saw Pete, she instantly ran for cover, cowering under the kitchen table. It made me furious, seeing her like that.

I would see him cower that way before the day was through.

“She’ll be nice and cozy here in the cabin,” I told Pete. “I’ll make her a bed and get a water dish for her.”

“Suit yourself,” he said indifferently, “but she’s not housebroken, so you might want to keep her in the cage.”

My fists clenched involuntarily.

I’ll put you in a fucking cage, you cocksucker!             

“No,” I said firmly, after taking another slow calming breath. “She can do whatever she wants in here. No cage.”

I grabbed a blanket from one of the beds and fashioned a comfy bed for the puppy and placed a dish of water on the floor for her.

“Do you have any food for her?” I asked him.

Another sigh. His impatience was turning into anger.

“It’s in the fucking car.”

“Be right back!” I chirped, bouncing out the door one more time. I genuinely enjoyed pissing him off.

Something about seeing him grow increasingly frustrated made me feel like giggling like the silly girl I was pretending to be. The way I was feeling at that moment, I was likely to be in total hysterics by the time I got around to killing him. Maybe my head wasn’t quite wired right or something, but I couldn’t deny how good it felt.

~ Chapter 27 ~

Sewage is as Sewage Does…

Once I was satisfied that the puppy had everything she needed in the form of food, water and a cozy bed, I herded Pete toward the door before he could make another attempt to grope me.

“Come and help me unload the quad before it gets any darker.”

I didn’t need his help of course, but I was staying on the move, keeping a few steps out of his reach like a mother grouse leading a predator away from her young. The object was to let him think he was getting close while still preventing him from getting his grimy hands on me. It was tons of fun, watching his irritation grow each time I turned the teasing up a notch. It was actually turning me on a bit to think about the horrible things I could do to him.

Man, am I a sick puppy, or what?

It got to the point where I was pretty much daring him to rape me, to give me an excuse to begin.

Give me a reason. I dare you. Just one fucking reason, and I will end you before you even see it coming.

Of course, his end was coming. It was coming soon. It was time for the cat to stop playing with its food and make the kill.

I was prepared for anything, including the
very
remote possibility that he might manage to overpower me. It wasn’t going to happen, but still… it was better to be overprepared than get caught with my pants down, literally or figuratively.

My hunting knife rode on my hip, its sheath attached to my belt. My .38 Special revolver was stuffed down the back of my pants under my shirt, fully loaded, safety on to prevent me from accidentally shooting my ass off in the event of a struggle. I had brought the .38 strictly for target practice. When reloading my ammunition, I always created light loads for target practice. It saved powder and I didn’t need much hitting power to knock tin cans off a log. The lighter rounds in the .38 would be ideal for what I had in mind for Pete.

My 12-gauge shotgun stood out of sight in a dark corner just inside the doorway of the porch, where I had placed it when I went outside to get the dog food. Pete wouldn’t see it in the darkness but I could easily grab it if needed. If things went as planned, I wouldn’t need the shotgun. I hoped I wouldn’t have to use it. It made such a mess and might kill him with only one shot – that simply would not do.

Outside, I pointed to a trail that led away from the house into the woods.

“I want to show you this real quick, before it gets too dark to see. This is where we’re going tomorrow.”

I patted his bony ass lightly to hurry him down the trail ahead of me, making a mental note to sterilize that hand later. He reacted by stopping and reaching back to make a grab for my crotch. I saw his hand move as soon as he stopped and was ready for him. Instead of getting a handful of me, his hand met the barrel of my revolver. I clicked the safety off and cocked the hammer of the gun.

Startled, he spun around.

“What the…”

His words were abruptly cut off by the handgun’s report as I plugged a bullet into his groin area. He went down, howling and holding his junk, doubling over until he was curled into a fetal position on the ground. I pumped a second round into his right knee. The bullet shattered his kneecap and embedded itself in the ground with a small puff of dust.

We were far enough into the wilderness that there was no danger of anyone hearing him or the gunshots. I stood and watched him for a minute or so as he writhed on the ground bawling like a jackass with its nuts caught in a barbed wire fence.

Once the initial shock of the injury had passed and the realization of what was happening sunk into his weak little brain, his self-preservation instinct took over.

Unable to stand, he tried to crawl away from me using his hands and one good leg. I casually put another round into his left shoulder, rendering the arm useless. I kicked him over onto his back and pointed the gun at his face.

“Feel like a tough guy now?” I growled. My cutesy Barbie doll persona was gone. Pete looked like he was shitting himself with terror, though I wasn’t about to check to confirm it.

“I saw what you did to that little dog. Rubbing her face in shit. What the fuck is wrong with you?” I roared, swinging my boot into his nuts with as much force as I could muster. He grunted, then coughed and puked a little bit from the pain.

“Crazy fucking bitch!” he yelped, in between gasps.

I aimed the gun at his face. “You got part of it right. I am the craziest motherfucker you’re ever gonna meet.”

“What the fuck are you?” he croaked. He was losing his voice from screaming.

“I’m the last person you’ll ever see, you useless fuck. I’m the one who sends useless fucks to Hell,” I told him.

His breathing had become fast and shallow. “Fuck you, cunt,” he muttered, trying to crawl away from me again. His arm and leg were useless, making his attempt at escape look downright comical. He looked like he was trying to do the backstroke across the dirt.

Dirk Davis did the Worm. This guy’s doing the Crab.

That giggly feeling came back and I began to snicker. If this had been a scene in a movie, it would have had the audience rolling in the aisles with laughter. At least, it would have had me doing it.

“Ever see
Reservoir Dogs
, Fucko?”

Pete didn’t answer. He looked beat, lying there panting, covered in blood and dirt.

I fired once more, point-blank into the center of his gut. I had been very careful with the placement of each shot. I had to make sure I didn’t kill Pete if I wanted him to stick around for the rest of my game. It was the reason I had elected to use the .38 with light loads instead of my .44.

It probably wouldn’t surprise anyone to know that I was an avid Tarantino fan. Movies like
Death Proof
and
Kill Bill
appealed to my violent nature as well as my desire to deal out ruthless justice to the ruthless.
Reservoir Dogs
, a Quentin Tarantino classic, was one of my favorites. My reason for referring to the movie was simple. Pete had been gut-shot, just like the character in the movie and was about to die a slow and horrible death.

“Being gut-shot is about the worst thing there is,” I told him, paraphrasing a line from the movie. “If you don’t bleed to death right away it’s slow and painful. Death often comes from infection, which takes several days to develop before it kills you. A guy could even hang on for a week or more, with the pain getting worse each day. Right now, I suppose you have all sorts of gut juices leaking into your belly where they don’t belong. Hurts, don’t it?”

He didn’t respond other than to squirm and whimper a little.

“And you know what, Fucko? This is all
your
fault! This is Karma, coming back to bite you in the ass for being a useless fucking excuse for a human being. If you hadn’t been torturing that dog when I was in that gas station I never would’ve noticed you. Just so happens, I’m a murderer. I don’t like assholes and I don’t give a shit who I kill. It takes a real tough guy to pick on a puppy. How d’ya feel now? Still feeling like a big man?”

I kicked him in the ribs to make sure he was still awake. His eyes were drooping and he looked like he might have been losing consciousness. I figured I’d better hurry up and get moving with his final punishment before he was too fucked up to enjoy it.

I visualized myself cutting out his guts and cramming them down his throat in an imaginative and artistic fashion but decided to take a different route to killing him, for a couple of reasons. First of all, duplicating anything I’d done in LA would link this murder to those ones and implicate me if (albeit a big IF) his body was ever found. Second, I was just plain tired of all that shit. The Feeder chapter of my life was behind me and I had no intention of re-opening it. I had already resolved to stop killing, when a chance encounter with an animal abuser had led me to this. I decided in the end, that the punishment should fit the crime.