

BECAUSE IT FEELS GOOD

by

R.J. Hamilton

Copyright © 2011 by R.J. Hamilton

**ISBN:** 978-1-4660-1308-7

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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LOOK FOR THESE OTHER BOOKS

BY R.J. HAMILTON:

Self Convictions

Self Consciousness

Self Conclusions

Self Consequences

And the Hand of God

A Personal Hell: Don't Ask, Don't Tell

&

Dissecting Sean Connor

* * * * *

Typically you feel safe,

Frequently comfortable when you're alone,

Occasionally there's someone lurking.

Watching,

Waiting,

Ready.

I'm that guy.

I don't mean to be,

But it feels so good.

~ Paul ~

*1*

Brown, orange, and yellow leaves cascade down in front of my face. They crunch beneath my feet as I walk through the woods. The soles of my black boots crush the dead foliage angrily. I pull her lifeless body along with one gloved hand by the collar of her light jacket. Her body paves a trail through the leaves on the ground. Her baby blue eyes are open and empty. They stare off into nowhere beyond her limp, side-cocked head. Her blonde hair hangs down toward the ground. There are bits of dried blood, leaves, and dirt tangled within the stands. Her skin is a pale blue. A thin bruise runs along the base of her neck.

I recall the scenario in my mind as I traipse along the wooded area. I've walked this route a thousand times before and know it like the back of my hand. I picked her up at a local bar a couple days ago. I'd stopped for a drink after work. I didn't feel like going home right away. My partner would be there and I wasn't really in the mood to deal with him after the day I'd had. Being a realtor has been rough over the last few months. The economy's not what it used to be. It seemed like every sale I'd gotten recently was falling through at the last minute. My fiancé wasn't making things any better. He continuously hounded me about my sales technique and ability. I'd abstained from activities like this over the last few weeks. I'd suppressed the emotions, the urges, as best I could. Stress had taken its toll and I couldn't ignore the voices any longer. She sat on the other side of the bar. I noticed the cleanliness and sheen of the bar top before seeing her. I searched for ringlets on the lacquer surface as my eyes scanned in her direction. My thick fingers wrapped calmly around the icy, cold exterior of my glass. The droplets found their way beneath the creases in my digits. They floated along the outside wall to the bottom of the glass. Two ice cubes danced in the scotch like a couple making out beneath the water at a public swimming pool. Their lips touch ever so slightly. I noticed her staring at me from across the room. Her blue eyes pierced through the air. I had to take a look to my left, right, and rear before knowing for certain that it was me she was flirting with. I gazed back at her. The thought of potentially fulfilling my darkest desire sent a surge of heat through my torso. My mind immediately began rifling through the files in my head. My files contained different methods in killing people. They were my sick, demented thrills locked away until they were ready for unveiling. I shot her a smirk of a smile and then got up to go to the restroom.

I approached the urinal and unzipped my trousers. It took a moment before the stream began. The relief was immediate and satisfying. It's not long before I'm finished. The trough flushed automatically so I didn't have to touch the germs awaiting my flesh. I walked over to the sink, also automatic. I waved my thick hands beneath the spigot. I allowed my hands a lukewarm refreshing as I stared at myself in the mirror. I checked my wavy, perfectly combed black hair. That morning, like every other, I added just enough gel to keep it tame through the day. There is not a speck of gray on my 40-year-old head. My eyebrows are waxed and trimmed, also faultless, save a tiny thread of a scar above my right eye. I'd fallen as a child and gashed my head open against a cement corner. Blood poured down my face and into my mouth before I finally made it home. I walked in the door in a hazy confusion. My mother freaked out at the sight and called an ambulance. The metallic taste the blood left on my tongue was unforgettable. My eyes stared at themselves in the bathroom mirror. They were such a deep brown that they were nearly black. My eyelashes were long and had almost a feminine quality of curl. I stared at myself for a moment. _Why are you doing this?_ I asked myself from inside my head. _Because it feels good, Paul,_ I answered my own question. I straightened my suit by pulling the bottom taunt and flattened it to my broad chest with my hands running down its entirety. I dried my hands and left the restroom.

I sat on an open bar stool next to my prey.

"Do you mind if I sit here?" I asked her coyly. It was time for me to lay on the thick charm without overdoing it. She jumped a bit when she hadn't noticed me beside her. Her hand went to her chest with a ladylike start. It was a mock heart attack. She took a deep breath and replied.

"Not at all, I'd thought you'd left," her voice was quiet but alto in tone. It seemed a little hoarse like she'd been yelling all day or had been getting over a cold. The thought of a potentially germy victim sent chills of worry down my spine.

"Are you ok?" She looked at me with wonder. "Your voice seems a little..."

"Oh, yeah, I went to a basketball game last night." She giggled a little. "I do love my basketball." Relief flowed through me. My plan could continue accordingly. I smiled at her in agreement even though I didn't agree. I hated sports, especially basketball. I looked beyond her frame to see that darkness was beginning to loom within the city. She looked up at me and I looked back.

"So, did you want to hang out here all night or maybe go back to my place?" I asked her abruptly. There'd be no point in beating around the bush if I wanted to accomplish my goal. I'd found in the past that people who were eager to leave a bar with a stranger within minutes of meeting them were not missed as much. It was almost as though their loved ones had been expecting something bad to happen to them anyway. It didn't matter to me. As long as the person was good looking and interested, I'd have them. She didn't seem put-off at all by my straightforwardness.

"Do you live far away?" She asked.

"No, actually just a couple blocks," I responded. I had an apartment rented in the downtown area that my partner was unaware of. It allowed for secret getaways and also had a private parking area with a desolate back hallway. The hall led into the lot where I'd parked my car and the discovery of my crimes seemed unlikely.

"What are we waiting for?" She inquired. She jumped from her stool. I set my foot onto the ground and held out an arm for her to grab onto. We left the bar and walked down the street to my apartment building. The building wasn't too cumbersome. It fit just right amongst the others in the area. Most of the buildings that surrounded it were offices. The building was newer. They had decided to rip out one of the businesses due to bankruptcy and replaced it because of lacking interest to buy. The place was perfect for me. It was located in between home and work. They were both only a couple of miles away.

I put my key into the front security door and opened it for her. She walked in and I followed behind her, giving directions along the way. We stepped into the elevator as the doors opened and I pushed the button for my floor. I lived on the tenth floor. The moment the doors closed, she threw herself at me. Her face plowed into mine and she kissed me. I responded even though she disgusted me. My stomach churned. I almost became sick, but I fought it off. I tried not to think about her soft, sweet lips against mine. She wasn't what I was into and I was appalled. I started to think about my plan for killing her. The kisses disappeared and I started to become hard with the thought of her death. Her hand brushed against my crotch. She was surprised and let out a throaty groan in approval. I ignored it. The doors to the elevator opened. I led her to my apartment and unlocked the door. As soon as I opened the door for her, she stepped inside, I closed the door behind me, my fist clenched, and I punched her in the back of the head. She hit the floor with a thud and then silence. I picked her up by her collar, dragging her into the bedroom. I threw her body onto the bed. I taped her mouth shut. I reached between the mattresses and pulled out four, perfectly cut pieces of nylon rope. I tied lavish knots I'd been taught in the Boy Scouts so many years ago. Once I had her secured, I tested the bindings. Satisfied, I left the room. I needed a drink of water.

I went into the kitchen and opened the cupboard above the sink. I didn't keep much in the apartment. There was just enough to entertain someone if I needed to. I turned on the cold water and tested it with my fingertip. Once the temperature was where I liked it, I filled the glass. I gulped the liquid down like it was the last glass of water I'd ever indulge in. My mind tangoed between the unconscious woman on the bed and the soothing liquid flowing down my throat. It was time. I placed the glass into the sink and opened a nearby drawer. I reached inside and pulled out a telephone cable, the straight connection between the wall and the base. The cable was perfectly coiled in my fist. It looked like a lasso. I closed the drawer and walked to the bedroom. She lay on the bed still asleep. With the cord in-hand, I climbed onto the mattress and straddled her at the waist. I slapped her across the face, just enough to get her moving. Her eyes began to flutter. Moans started to escape her lungs, but the duct tape stopped them from leaving her vocal cords. Her limbs became tense as she pulled against the ropes. Her eyes darted at mine and her eyebrows rose up. She knew she was in trouble. _Why?_ She seemed to ask with her eyes.

"Because it makes me feel good," I answered aloud in a whisper. I uncoiled the cable as I sat on top of her body. She watched and struggled against her restraints. There was no room for her to get me off of her or to bend her knees. I extended the cabling slowly and held it out before her between both hands. I kept a solemn expression. Taking one end of the cord, I gently slid it beneath her flailing head. I retrieved the end on the other side of her neck and pulled it so it was perfectly set at the halfway mark. I then fed each end, one at a time, under her flesh once more. Her vocalizations were becoming more intense but not loud enough for anyone to hear. I looked into her eyes and seized down on each end of the wire. I pulled and pulled. The rush of life within me was orgasmic. I could feel the life coming from her body as it slipped out. I groaned and fell flat on top of her. I lay next to her lifeless body for a few minutes. The liquid in my shorts had become dry and abrasive against my skin. I left her for the night, still tied, still dead, all alone. I'd take care of her later.

I went to clean up below the waist with a fresh pair of underwear and a wet washcloth I'd kept in the bathroom closet. After that, I left the apartment, locked the door, and walked down the street to my car. I looked in the rearview mirror before pulling away from the curb. My hair was a bit frazzled. I straightened it up and drove to my house.

I pulled into the driveway. The streetlights illuminated brightly. Hedges lined the drive beautifully. They were trimmed weekly by the gardener. A lone rose bush grew in the middle of the lawn. Our house was stucco white with a clay tiled roof. It had a 2-car garage but I chose not to park inside. I turned off the car and walked to the front of the house. I checked my tie and entered. Delicious smells immediately hit my nostrils. Max, my boyfriend, was making dinner, as he sometimes did. Max is a wonderful cook along with being a superb attorney.

"Honey, I'm home," I announced to him. Chelsea, our Cocker Spaniel, came bounding toward me from around the corner. I dropped to her level and stroked her ears for a moment. "Hey there, my baby, did you have a good day?" I spoke to her in a baby-talk voice and asked her questions like I'll get an answer. I stood back up and walked toward the kitchen. I saw Max putting the finishing touches on our plates, steamed carrots and green beans. He didn't look at me.

"You're late again," he scolded.

"I'm sorry. I had some closing paperwork to finish before I could leave," I lied. He continued arranging, flipped a hand towel over his shoulder, and picked up the plates. He walked into the dining room and set the plates on the table. A tall, white candle flickered in the middle of it. My heart fluttered a little from the gesture.

"So, you sold one?" He asked.

"That's what they're telling me anyway," I fib again, "but you know how these things have gone in the past." He let out a disappointed push of air. I watched him for a moment as he placed the plates just right according to their food arrangement. The vegetables were always closest to the chair. Max believed in eating your vegetables. I noticed he was finished and approached him from behind. I wrapped my arms around him and nuzzled his neck. "Thank you for making dinner," I whispered. He turned to me. His hazel eyes stared into mine with a slight head tilt. He is inches shorter than me, 6'0". I ran my fingers threw his brown hair. I kissed him on his masculine lips. I felt the stubble against mine and it's a welcome feeling.

"You're welcome. Let's hope this one goes through," he looked at me longingly. "Now, go change quickly before it gets cold." I gave him another quick peck on the cheek and dashed off to change.

Dinner was wonderful, but desert in the bedroom was even better. The visions of the evening's events continually flashed before my eyes as I looked into his. We fell asleep in each other's arms. We both went to work the following morning. Everything was normal as far as Max knew. I was a normal guy. I returned to the apartment after work to check on her. Everything was just as I'd left it. I relocked the door and went home. I'd be back the next day, Saturday. I'd tell Max I had a house to show, but assured him I'd only be gone for a few hours.

Her body causes the leaves to rustle and chatter as I drag it along. I'd changed my clothes at the apartment. I wasn't about to dispose of a body in a suit. The marsh is just ahead. I can see the reeds poking up from the ground. Birch trees are starting to thicken within the growth. I am almost free. I'd driven ten miles and walked through two miles of woods to get rid of her. There is nothing in this area. The stench of decay suddenly hits my nostrils. There are a few others out here. She isn't going to be alone. Most of the remains are bones. The animals generally take care of the dirty work. I can't go any further. The smell is too bothersome. I toss her into the weeds and her body hits the ground with a combination of thump and splash. Satisfied, I make my trek back to my car, to my apartment to clean up and change, and back to home, to my Max.

*2*

"Were you having another one of your nightmares last night?" Max asks me between bites of scrambled eggs. I've always had nightmares, for as long as I can remember anyway. Most of the time, these dreams involve my mother and a belt stinging my skin over and over again. She whacks the backs of my thighs repeatedly. She screams about my being a filthy little faggot who stole her men from her.

"I don't remember," I reply. I don't ever want Max knowing the dirty details of my past. It's been so many years anyway, I don't see the point in dwelling on it and she's been dead for a long time.

"You always say you don't remember," he stops eating for a moment. His fork rests against his plate. His hazel eyes stare into mine. "I don't understand how you can have all these bad dreams and not remember the slightest detail about them."

"Max, can't you just let it go?" I say to him quietly as I stare back at him. "Maybe they're bad enough that I don't want to recall them, how about that? Maybe it's something I'd rather forget instead of bringing them with me into the day." He continues to look at me, but a look of longing compassion overtakes his face.

"You're right, I'm sorry, honey. It's just that I love you and don't want to see you hurting like this all the time. Maybe you should see a psychiatrist?"

"We're not having this discussion again." I get up from the table and gather my dishes. "I'll be fine." I walk into the kitchen and rinse my dinnerware off. Max comes into the room. His arm reaches around me as he sets his plate and fork into the sink beneath mine. His lips touch the back of my neck. Shivers roll down my spine and goose bumps form on my arm.

"I'm sorry," he whispers softly into my ear. I set my plate down and spin to face him. We embrace.

"It's okay," I say softly into his shoulder. The truth of the matter is that I don't want a psychiatrist digging around in my head. There are too many secrets in there and I don't want anyone to know about them. We break apart and I look at him. "What should we do today?" We've been together for five years and have yet to miss a Sunday of we time.

"I don't know." He stops to think for a moment and the idea comes quickly. "How about going down to the lake? We could bring some cheese and crackers, maybe a nice wine? It'll be a little picnic by the lake." I like the idea and agree. We go to the shower to get ready for our day.

The warm water flows over our bodies. We tend to each other's every nook and cranny as we lather up and rinse off. We don't usually have time for shared showers during the week. We save it for our special day. I enjoy every moment as the water washes the suds from his firm body. I assist with one of my hands from his neck, to his shoulder, to his abdominal muscles, and continue down his torso to his waist. I tease him a bit and he does the same to me. We agree to stop with a deep kiss and I turn off the knob. We dry off and go into the bedroom to get dressed. Chelsea waits for us on the bed. Her head pops up when we enter the room. I baby talk to her a bit before slipping on my shorts and shirt. After I'm completely dressed, I give her a little attention. Max leaves the room and I follow shortly after, as does Chelsea. We sit in the living room and he turns on the television. It's still too early to go to the lake. We'll leave in an hour or two. Max flips the channels until he finds one that sparks some interest, the local news.

"Theresa Freemont was reported missing today," my heart begins to flutter as the newscaster makes the announcement and a photograph of the woman I'd killed a couple of days ago flashes on the screen. "She is reported to have gone missing Thursday or Friday evening. Anyone with information regarding Freemont's whereabouts can contact the Langley police department at..."

"What's the matter, Paul?" I hear Max beside me. I look at him sharply. "Do you know that woman?"

"No, I'm sorry, she looked a little familiar, but you know how many people I deal with at work." I quickly gather a reputable story from the back of my mind. I tap my open hand calmly against his exposed thigh. He goes back to the television. The report about her is over and there has been a car accident somewhere around Langley. Every time I see a report regarding one of my victims, it kind of throws me for a loop. It doesn't really scare me, but it puts things into a different light. Someone actually cared about her. Well, it doesn't matter, she's gone now.

We veg out in front of the television until it's time to get the snacks ready for the picnic. Max grabs the necessities and I latch Chelsea's leash around her collar. She gets excited. She knows when it's time for a walk. Her stubby tail wags back and forth frantically. We walk out the garage door and hop into Max's car. We drive with the windows down so the warm autumn breeze can blow in. The air is comfortable enough for shorts, but too warm for jeans. I zone out while Max drives us down the highway toward our destination. My mind goes back to the nightmares. My mother looms over me with a leather strap. Her blue eyes are ablaze and achieve more fire with every thwack. Her black hair is disheveled and flows everywhere with untamed curls. The snarl upon her lips is demonic and sinister. My twelve-year-old legs welt in red crisscrossed markings and the smacks deafen my ears.

"I'll teach you to fuck my boyfriends you little faggot!" Her screams burn into my eardrums between hits. My legs became numb after the tenth or fifteenth lash.

"I didn't do it," I calmly try to explain to her as I protect my delicate face and head. I am desensitized, emotionally and physically. The fact that she hates me so much is the only thing that hurts. "I didn't do anything." Another hit across the backs of my thighs. I wince slightly.

"Don't lie to me you little faggot bastard!" It doesn't matter. Nothing I say changes her mind. I am a little faggot bastard boyfriend stealer.

"Paul," Max interrupts my thoughts, "we're here." I look around. Sure enough, we are. I open the door with leash in-hand and Chelsea leads the way. I stop her for a moment so Max can retrieve the goodies from the trunk. I admire the scenery. A few scattered trees grow around the lake. Their leaves sprinkle sporadically to the ground with the breeze as it pulls their weak anchors free. The grass is still green beneath the light sprinklings of foliage. The lake's rippling surface sparkles beneath the sun's rays. A few boaters speed along the water creating waves, violent at first but quickly smoothed as they resettle. We continue walking toward the edge of the lake. Max lays out one of our blankets no longer used for anything else but this. He pulls the corners perfect and I assist with my free hand. He places the bag in the middle and we walk closer to the water's edge. There is nobody else nearby, our picnic will be safe. I hold Chelsea's leash in my right hand, Max takes my left.

"I'll never get over how beautiful this is," he says as he lays his cheek against my shoulder. I smile. We appreciate the same things.

"Me either," I agree with him. The sun is high and feels good against my skin. It won't be until mid-winter before the summer tan will fade, leaving my original Italian olive tones for a few cool months.

"We could jump in you know?" Max tells me with a suggestion. I quiver at the thought.

"You know I won't swim in a lake. It grosses me out." There's always been something about lake water that I can't bring myself to going in. It might be the germaphobe in me, but it's something I refuse to do.

"I know, I understand. Would you rather sit and enjoy our cheese and wine? Not to mention, the great view?" I turn to him.

"You know I do," I flirt lovingly. He turns slightly and smacks me on the butt with an openhanded swat. We go to the blanket, facing the water. I allow Chelsea to frolic close by with her leash still attached to the loop on her collar. Max and I admire the relaxing nature around us. After an enjoyment of wine, cheese, and crackers, we lie down on the blanket, stare up at the thin layer of clouds, and hold hands. We talk quietly and seldom as we enjoy the moment we're having. It's another perfect Sunday, our day.

*3*

Travis stands quietly in the wooded area. He looks upon the dead bodies as the rancid smell seeps into his nostrils. The smell is off-putting to his senses, but he ignores it as he stares at his obsession's belongings. He steps through the thick, tall blades of grass into the graveyard. The odor becomes more looming as he approaches. Travis places a hand over his light blue eyes to shield from random rays of sun from above as they poke in through the thinning canopy of leaves. A thick tuft of blonde hair lies over the top of his hand. He looks around the patch. Small pools of water form around clumps of grass. A large pool of swamp water is only a few feet beyond the bodies. He looks down at the woman with the blonde hair and empty blue eyes, Paul's most resent victim. Her skin is gray now, her eyes cloudy white. The vision sends chills of excitement up his spine. The thought of Paul taking the life from someone turned him on. He envisioned Paul's huge hands wrapped around her throat as he sat on top of her small frame. Travis' head became warm with his secret lust for Paul. Travis squats down near her and runs his fingers through her hair. It is dry and matted, dead. He stands back up. Jealousy flows through his veins along with anger. Knowing Paul had touched her instead of him is upsetting. He gives her lifeless torso a boot with his foot.

Another body lies close by. Leaves have most of the corpse covered. He remembers this victim. Travis thinks back to when Paul took the man. It was another victim from a bar. The man started flirting with Paul as Travis watched secretly from nearby. He recalls the anger flowing within his mind, but he knew what Paul would do to the man. He knew Paul would kill him. He deserved to be killed after coming onto Travis' man. Travis didn't have the guts to approach Paul. He knew what Paul did to people and, as much as Travis wanted Paul's affection and touch, he didn't want to die. Travis watched as the two men walked out the front door of the bar. There wasn't much for conversation prior to their departure. He walked stealthily behind the men as they walked toward Paul's secret apartment complex downtown. Travis observed from across the street as Paul opened the door and they went inside. He hid in the shadows and waited. He knew it wouldn't be long before Paul would emerge from the building, it never was. He was right. After about an hour waiting, Paul came out, alone. Travis waited for him to drive away before making his way inside. He slipped his copy of a key he had made into the lock and opened the door. He quietly went upstairs and let himself into Paul's apartment. He was always careful to leave things undisturbed. He sleeked around the corner toward the bedroom. He could see the man's body on the bed. Light from the streetlamps poured inside. His flesh was still a normal color, but his eyes were wide open as they starred at the ceiling above. Travis stood near him for a moment, looking down at him on the bed. He was fully clothed and gorgeous, but nothing compared to Paul's beauty. Travis sat next to the dead body and then lay down. He pressed his body against the lifeless, still warm cadaver. He inhaled deeply, trying to catch any remaining scent of Paul. Travis closed his eyes for a moment as he pretended Paul was next to him.

A leaf lands atop Travis' head, bringing him back from his fantasy. He looks down at his shoes. The mud is starting to consume his soles. Travis backs away from the gravesite and turns, retreating through the tall grass. Thoughts of his lover float in and out of his mind as he makes his way back to his car.

*4*

"Detective Brownlee, have you come up with any leads regarding the Theresa Freemont case?" Jake Brownlee's concentration is interrupted by the Captain as he stares at his computer screen and the case file open on his desk.

"No, Sir," he pivots his chair to face the tall man dressed in a spotless, black suit and tie, "I've got nothing so far but a few random phone calls leading to nowhere." It's been almost a week since the young woman was first reported missing and Jake is frustrated.

"Well, let's get things going. I'm running out of things to tell her family," the Captain leaves with discouraging words. Jake turns back to his computer screen, the faint coloring of his auburn hair and green eyes stare back at him blankly beyond the screen display. He doesn't know where to go. The only people who know anything about Theresa are her parents and they don't seem to have a clue about who she hung out with or what she did in her spare time. Her coworkers consider her an outcast. She was described as being an "antisocial bitch with nothing but attitude" for most of them. Some said she was a "boyfriend stealing whore" as well. Jake was at a loss. Missing persons cases in Langley used to be far and few between, but lately they've been piling up. The problem is no connection between the victims. _Without any leads, where do I go_ , he asks himself over and over again. She didn't own a car, using mass transportation wherever she went or borrowing her parents' vehicle here and there. Brownlee flips through the thin file for what seems to be the thousandth time. A missing persons report, some investigation notes, and a couple of photographs are all it contains. He continues to stares at Theresa's photograph. _Where are you,_ he thinks as her blue eyes gaze blankly back at him.

*5*

Paul awakens silently in a cold sweat. His mother has been haunting his dreams as she usually is. The backs of his legs tingle from the residual beating he'd just endured. He slips out from beneath the covers. Chelsea's head pops up beside Max. She is in her usual spot between them. Paul pats her on the head softly in an attempt to assure her that everything's alright. Sweat glistens on his chest and back as the near-dawn moonlight spills in through the blinds. He tiptoes out of the bedroom and into the hallway toward the bathroom. He eases the door closed behind him, carefully keeping the latch from making a sound. He slowly turns and releases the handle when there is no resistance in the knob against his hand. He goes to the white porcelain sink and turns on the gold knob, cold only. Paul braces himself against the countertop for a moment and looks into the mirror. The hollow shell of a boyfriend stealing faggot bastard stares back at him. Hatred for the man in the reflection sends a surge of anger through his body.

"You're a worthless son-of-a-bitch," he whispers to himself as if the reflection is a completely different person. Paul's anger begins to build even more. His hands go to his head and he grabs handfuls of his own hair. He grips the locks tightly. A tingly pain surges into his scalp. He gasps quickly, as if the reality suddenly hits him. It's his own hair he's pulling. He releases his fists and lowers them back to the sink. The anger subsides within. As if nothing happened, he cups his hands beneath the cool water and lowers his face to the bowl. A gentle splash of liquid rinses his face. He repeats the measure three more times and turns off the spigot. He reaches for a hand towel nearby and dries his face. "Ah, much better," he says quietly to the man in the mirror. He rehangs the towel and leaves the room.

Paul silently retrieves the socks, t-shirt, and shorts from the dresser. He'd placed them there the night prior in anticipation of an early morning run. He turns to ensure he hasn't disturbed Max, he hasn't. He slips into the living room and puts on his clothes. He grabs his running shoes and slides them on. After tying each of the laces tightly and with care, he gently exits the house.

The moon hangs low in the sky and the stars have stopped twinkling due to the suns looming presence. Early morning dew settles delicately on the front lawn. Sprinkler systems sputter throughout the neighborhood. Paul walks down the sidewalk in the front of the house to the driveway and makes his way to the street. He begins by picking his knees up high as he stands at the end of the driveway's asphalt. He bends over and touches his toes a couple of times. He faces to the right of the drive and begins a slow jog. A random dog barks from their fenced-in confinements from the backs of houses. There are no lights on inside any of the homes.

His muscles are ready for a challenge. Paul allows his mind to wander as he increases his speed. His room was dark and he was only ten years old when it happened the first time. The bedroom door opened a crack. The light seeped in from the hallway. Paul was facing the wall, but the change in the room's illumination and the creak of his door was enough to wake him. His eyes opened though covered in a hazed sleepiness. The lightening lined the wall like the white shoulder line on the highway. It slowly narrowed and vanished as quickly as it had come. Paul allowed his ten-year-old eyes to close again. They reopened with a start as his mattress sank in. A rough hand rested itself on his bare shoulder.

"Are you awake," the gruff voice asked. Paul recognized the familiar tone immediately. It was his mother's boyfriend. He was in his early thirties, a construction worker. The deeply worked hand was grooved with labor and weather for his age. Paul remained silent. The large hand began to move down his arm toward his small hand. Her boyfriend spoke again, "Paul, I know you're awake. I want to show you something." The little boy closed his eyes. He didn't know what was coming and wasn't sure he wanted to. The man took his hand around his narrow wrist and pulled it toward his crotch. The lump in his pants was unmistakable. This was something teachers taught in school. These were the "red touches" children were warned about. Paul pretended it wasn't happening.

"Shit," he says aloud as his ankle rolls over a small pebble along the road. Paul isn't paying attention to the terrain and stumbles a bit. He quickly regains his footing and continues running. The quiet suburbia has disappeared and is replaced by a narrow road lined with trees. The smell of freshly laid tar still looms in the air. Road crews had covered the dirt with pavement a few weeks prior. He admires the road ahead. The sun begins to crest. An orange-colored hue dances in the air like a newly sparking fire. Paul leaves his memories to the walls in his mind. Figurative masons slap on the concrete in an attempt to repair the leaky hole. A cool, autumn breeze slides against his skin as he fights the slight inclination of the hill, his quadriceps burn in conjunction with his calves. He pushes hard to make it to the crest of the hill, to greet the morning sun. Only a few more steps, he widens his strides. The burn continues and worsens. He ignores the pain in his muscles as they close in on cramping. Then, as quickly as the pain arrives, it lessens. He stands atop the hill. The sun smiles at him. He grins to himself. He feels accomplished. _Now I have to run back,_ he thinks. He waits for a couple of minutes before making the trek back to the house. _At least it is downhill most of the way,_ Paul mutters silently as he runs.

The morning run is satisfying and helps him to clear his head. He sneakily enters the house, sweat dripping violently from his forehead and arms. His t-shirt is soaked all the way through. He slips off his soggy running shoes and places them outside on the step, strips off his t-shirt, and his shorts, first peeking in on Max and Chelsea. Max is sleeping soundly. The little Cocker Spaniel's head pops up again, this time she's assumed Paul's position on the bed. He motions for her to come without a sound. She leaps from the bed and exits the room. Paul eases the bedroom door shut as to not disturb his sleeping prince. He lets the dog out into the backyard, gets a drink of water, allows Chelsea back inside, and goes to the shower.

Paul strips off his underwear before starting the water. Naked, he holds a hand beneath the spigot. He adjusts the temperature to a lukewarm level prior to jumping in. The water hits him with a sudden chill, but it's a welcome feeling after the heat of the exercise. A bit of the saltiness from the sweat runs from his forehead to his lips. He accidentally gets a taste of it on his tongue. It disgusts him for a moment. Paul fills his mouth with water from the showerhead and gargles to get rid of the saltiness. He spits the water out and continues his bathing ritual. He scrubs methodically, almost to the point of skin irritation. He rinses systematically, turns off the water, and grabs his towel. After drying off, he creeps into the bedroom to the closet.

"Hey, why don't you come back to bed?" Max's voice from behind him makes Paul jump a bit as he shuffles through his hanging shirts. There is a sudden soft kiss on his neck. He hadn't heard his partner get out of the bed and sneak up behind him. Max's rough stubble after a day's growth, brushes against the nape and over to the upper portion of Paul's back. Chills flow down Paul's naked body and bumps decorate his flesh. "I've still got about a half-an-hour before I have to get ready to go," Max whispers against Paul's bare back. The warmth of his breath sends more chills. Hands reach around Paul's waist, removing the knot of the towel as it falls to the floor. He is spun around to face Max. Paul leads him backward to the bed.

*6*

I lock up the file cabinet before gathering my things and walking out the door of my office building. My realty company is a modest one. Most of the other realtors keep to themselves; there are only six besides me. I'll have to admit that I'm not really one who enjoys socializing with the people I work with. There is a click of three who goes out for drinks oftentimes after work, not my thing. My most recent prospect has just fallen through and it's only Tuesday. This is going to be one hell of a week. To make matters worse, Max is gone. He left yesterday morning, early. There is a big case on the other side of the state, so it's just me and Chelsea. He'll be back this weekend. With that thought, my cell starts to vibrate in my pocket. I look at the display to see that its Max calling.

"Hey, you," I say before he gets a chance to speak.

"Hey," his tone is soft.

"What's the matter," I ask as I walk out the front door and step onto the sidewalk. There is a moment of silence.

"It's been a long day. The judge cut it short today because he wasn't feeling well, but my colleague and I have some case notes to go over and some questioning details for tomorrow," he ends the sentence with a sigh. "I think it's going to be a long night. Are you going to be alright?" I step off the curb to cross the street and wait for the passing of a few cars. I'm parked across the street.

"Yeah, I'll be fine. I'm probably going to curl up on the couch with Chelsea and watch some television," I lie nonchalantly.

"I'm sorry I can't be there with you right now." There is a knock on the door in the background. "Hold on a second, Paul." I can hear some talking in the phone, Max's voice and another male. "Okay, sorry, Vince is here. We're going to go down to the hotel restaurant, get something to eat and go over these case notes ok?" There is an awkward anger brewing in my gut. It stems from jealousy, not because my man is alone with another, I think it's more due to the fact that he's not here to protect me from myself.

"Alright, honey, I understand," I hide my frustration, "you have a good night. Don't worry about me. Get your work done 'cause the sooner you are, the sooner you will be back."

"I love you," Max says it first.

"I love you too," I return. I hang up the phone and unlock the door to my car. An uneasy feeling continues to stir around in my stomach. Scenarios begin to flit about in my head as I turn the key in the ignition. I wonder who is next. I try not to dwell on it. I pull away from the curb and head for the highway out of town. I'm going to go somewhere new this time. Though there hasn't been any new news on the last person since the news report, I'm not taking any chances in Langley, not yet. I glance in my rearview mirror for a moment. Dark sinister eyes stare back at me. This time I've got an extra couple of days to play out one of my new ideas. I take the exit and turn on some music, thoughts flowing casually.

There was an anger that flowed through my veins when I was young. It was a rage that I didn't know what to do with. My mother's boyfriend's touch in combination with her beatings had taken a toll on my mind. I didn't know what to do with the feelings I'd had. I felt helpless and discouraged. I was young, not even a teenager when things got more serious. I couldn't do anything to my mother. I couldn't get her to believe I didn't mean to hurt her, but she was my mother. I found different outlets. It started with small animals, a magnifying glass and some ants, a baby bird here and there. I'd torture things, helpless things. It made me feel good knowing I did have some sort of control in my life. I had the power to take life from other things. I did it because it felt good and it took the pain away for a moment. It was only about a year before ants and birds turned into stray cats and dogs. I'd do unspeakable things to them, things that I wouldn't dream of now that I have Chelsea. Human beings chose their paths, animals don't. I think that's the difference.

When I was thirteen, everything changed. I kept to myself in school but that didn't stop other kids from picking on me. I knew I was different; I didn't need others to tell me. I was alone in every way. But something changed suddenly when I met him. I was sitting in history class when I first noticed him. He sat adjacent from me. He hadn't been at the school for very long and nobody really knew him. I noticed him sneaking peeks at me. I could see him out of the corner of my eye. Sometimes his looks would linger beyond my noticing. I'd look back at him quickly and his blue eyes wouldn't shift from mine. It took a couple of weeks before either of us said a word to each other. He was the first to speak. As we walked into the hallway, he stayed next to me rather than taking his usual route in the opposite direction. Our heights were matched, as were our strides.

"Hey," he started quietly as if he didn't want others to notice he was speaking to me.

"Hey," I responded with the same finesse. I carried my books in front of me. His hung lazily at his opposite side.

"I was just wondering," he continued at a whisper.

"What," I asked him after a moment of silence as if he was trying to find the words.

"Are you gay," he asked bluntly. I stopped for a moment to process. He did also. The words hit me in a weird way. I'd never actually heard anyone say them out loud, not so politically correct. My mother uttered them in blasphemous expulsions like faggot, but _gay_ was so smooth and nonviolent. I look down at my books.

"Are you seriously wondering or asking so you can screw with me about it and tell everyone else?" I wasn't quite ready to answer without reassurance. Everything was so confusing then. I looked up at him. He was staring at me. It made the moment more awkward.

"I wouldn't ask you if I wasn't serious, Paul." There was a certain level of softness to his eyes, a compassion that I'd never seen before in any others. "If it'll make you feel any better...I am." It was weird hearing someone else say it aloud, quietly, but still aloud. I smiled at him. Something clicked for me at that moment.

"Yeah," I answered him simply and continued walking down the hallway.

"Cool," he said, "see you later." He pivoted and took off in the other direction, the way he should've been traveling in the first place. A warm feeling flowed through me. It was comforting and scary at the same time. I didn't want anyone else to know, so I was a little worried, but I was also happy to know there was someone else like me. I grinned to myself before walking into my next classroom, mathematics.

Things progressed rather quickly between us. We'd meet after school, hop on our bikes, and ride away as young boys do. There was a field not far from the school and just on the edge of town. The grass grew tall and thick there. Clouds rolled overhead calmly while the breezes brushed the grass tops, causing them to bow slightly to the stealth winds. We'd hide our bikes and backpacks in the steep ditch and walk through the field. We were careful to never use the same path as to not give away our position. We'd go hundreds of feet within. There was a clearing a ways from the road in which we'd lay. It was late fall and I was fifteen years old.

"You know, we can make them pay for what they've done to you," he began the conversation abruptly after we lay down in our usual spot. I had my arm beneath his head and his arm rested on my chest. The words caught me a little off guard. I'd told him everything regarding my situation. I explained the graphic details of the molestation and the beatings. Tears filled my eyes as the words escaped my lips then. It was the first time I'd let anyone into my world, my nightmare. I'd even exposed the fact that I'd killed animals and my feelings about human life and how easily I'd felt I could extinguish one. He didn't seem to be bothered by my vocalized thoughts. It made me feel more comfortable with him than I had with anyone in my life.

"What do you mean?" I asked him even though I was pretty sure I knew what he was saying.

"I mean, it wouldn't be that hard to kill them without getting caught," his words flowed so easily. The all-to-familiar warm feeling of excitement began coursing through my veins. It was the same feeling I'd gotten with any morbid thought of death by my hand. It didn't take much to convince me. I was a teenager who'd lived a nightmare for long enough. I wanted to wake up and it was something that could finally happen. We continued to discuss the possibilities for a couple of hours.

A few weeks later our plan was set in motion. I went into the basement. The weather had been changing and the nights were beginning to become cold. The furnace was gas and I knew what had to be done. I knelt in front of the furnace and removed the thin metal cover. I carefully placed the covering next to the heating unit and looked inside. A blue flame flickered within. I looked toward the stairs to ensure it was clear, went back to the flame, took a deep breath, and blew as hard as I could. The flame danced and then disappeared. I replaced the cover in the front and snuck upstairs. I walked out the front door with clothing for a sleepover at his house. I didn't say goodbye, she didn't deserve one. The late afternoon sun smiled upon me as I pedaled my bicycle to his house. The morbidly comfortable feeling I always got never left me that night. I felt at peace and like a god, in control for the first time.

I said my goodbyes to him the next morning, threw my backpack on, and mounted my bike. The anticipation was killing me. I arrived at the house and tossed my bicycle to the ground. I went to the door, feeling still there, stronger than ever. I was shaking and hopeful. I tried the handle, locked. I placed my key in the lock and turned, it opened. The rancidity of rotten eggs hit my nostrils immediately. It was nauseating. I checked the living room first, ignoring the smell. The television flashed. I noticed the recliner kicked back entirely. Her boyfriend's blue face stared back at me. I stood at the head of the chair for a moment. His eyes were empty and hollow. His mouth was wide open with a fat protruding tongue. A feeling of accomplishment flowed through my veins. He'd gotten what he'd deserved. I was ruined. I walked toward my mother's bedroom and opened the door. The vision of her empty eyes stared back at me, the intruder, faggot, bastard, boyfriend stealer, and murderer. I wanted so desperately to go inside her room and grab the belt she'd used to so many times on me. I wanted to beat her corpse for gratification and closure. I refrained from the impulse. The odor began to choke me as I realized how strong it had become. The carbon monoxide seeped into the vents and had become intensified in her bedroom. I began to cough violently. I ran from the house. Once out on the lawn, I vomited. I heaved and heaved until nothing came out but bile. Tears filled my eyes. I ran to the neighbor's house yelling about my dead family. My act was undeniably Oscar winning.

The police arrived with the coroners to gather me up and to bag the bodies. I never saw my friend after that.

My mind accompanies my eyes on the highway ahead. The city isn't far. I'd only been to the place a few times. I see the exit and take it. The city isn't nearly as large as Langley, but it's big enough that there are options. I pull into town and drive toward Main Street. There are always convenient places near the town square area. Bars are the easiest hangouts and the optimal time is nearing. The sun is starting to become low and the streetlights will soon be flipping on. I watch out my car window, looking left and right for a sign. It isn't long before I find one. I pull off the street and onto a side road nearby. I get out, take off my suit jacket, remove my tie, and place the items neatly in the backseat. The tie rests like a perfectly coiled snake laying on a rock as it basks in the sun. I lock the car and make my way down, across the street, and into the bar.

Though it's still rather light outside, the bar is dark and dingy. I look around before finding a seat. A bar top lined with stools runs directly in front of the door. Tacky vinyl tops the barstools and the bar top is cushioned on the corner near the customer by the same type of material. Assorted bottles of alcohol line shelves behind the bar from waist to ceiling. They are organized within cubbyholes lighted individually with black lights. A middle-aged woman with deep-set leathery wrinkles stands behind the bar. Her hair is teased to puffy perfection. She puffs on her cigarette and gives me a nod in greeting. I respond by nodding back. Several tables are located in the middle and matching vinyl booths line the walls opposite the bar. A small dance floor sits empty near the farthest wall at the back. I slide into a booth by the wall facing the dance floor. A couple of older gentlemen sit at one of the tables. A pitcher of beer leaves water rings in the center of their table. They each sip from large, thin glasses. They wear matching construction outfits, neon greenish-yellow shirts with a company name printed on the back in black lettering. They converse quietly back and forth; I don't care what they're talking about. A young woman, probably in college, approaches from the other side of the establishment. Her hair is black and neatly tied back. She wears an apron, tight blue jeans, and a low-cut t-shirt. She smiles before getting halfway to my booth.

"What can I get for ya?" She asks me as soon as she gets close enough. I smile at her.

"A light beer for now I guess," I say to her. I notice the thinness of her neck right where the collar bones join at the base. A thin silver necklace drapes across her throat.

"Okay, be right back," she says with another smile. She quickly returns with my beer, I pay her, and she dismisses herself without any further conversation. I watch her nonchalantly as she talks to the old, weathered bartender. Patrons begin arriving slowly. I sip beers slowly and carefully in order to not catch a buzz. I wait for prospects to come to me. Couples come inside and sit, coworkers after hours, and a few younger people. I survey. A lone man comes into the bar. His features are dark like one of Latino decent. His skin is fresh and flawless. His build is nice like he takes care of himself. I notice him immediately. His eyes are dark, nearly black, like mine. He walks to a booth a few further down from mine and gives me a slight smile. I watch with momentary glances, some through the glass of my beer as I take a lingering sip. His eyes wander the other occupants. I notice the length of time his sights stay on the construction worker couple. I think I've found what I'm looking for. I decide it's time to push the envelope in his direction. I focus my eyes on him for extended, not so discrete, periods of time. He looks back at me. I smile. He grins back. His eyes glance around to ensure nobody's noticed our connection. He's closeted, perfect. I motion for him to come over, he does awkwardly.

"Hey, don't worry, I don't bite," I say to him quietly. "Have a seat. Just act like we're old buddies who haven't seen each other for a while. It doesn't have to be obvious." He looks at me as he slides in on the side across from me.

"This isn't something I do often," he says in perfect English.

"I can tell. That's why I was giving you pointers. I know you don't want people to know," I inform him calmly.

"Is it that obvious?" He asks with a smile as he stares down at his glass fidgeting with his fingernails.

"Kind of," I respond, trying to break the ice. "We could always leave? I'll go first if you want to meet across the street?" I never want to get to know my victims so I always try to get right down to business. I have needs. His eyes perk up a little after I finish my question.

"Okay," he says quietly. There is an excited shakiness to his voice. I grin at him quickly and get up. The wait out front is minimal before he emerges from the bar. Traffic is constant, but slow. I lead the way after he sees me. I don't wait for him to cross the street. We make eye contact and I walk toward my car. I hear the heels of his cowboy boots as the clop across the pavement. I round the corner of the building and wait, the area is clear on the side road. I see him round the corner and get into my car. I unlock the doors and he gets inside.

"Is your vehicle going to be alright?" I ask him as my car idles. He looks at me.

"Oh, I didn't drive. I don't live far from Main Street," I feel some relief knowing there won't be an abandoned car sitting out in front of the bar, sparking police interest more quickly.

"Okay," I don't make it obvious that I'm relieved, "So, where's a good spot for some privacy?" I ask him. The feel good feeling is back and intensifying with each moment.

"Just go that way," he points straight ahead. "There's a secluded area in the park about a mile down the road." I pull away from the curb and drive off. The tree line thickens with each passing block. I think to myself how easily this is playing out. He reaches a hand over toward my thigh and I allow it to inch its way to my crotch. The feeling is unbearable. "Turn left here," he breaks the fondling silence. I pull onto a narrow road into a wooded area and turn off my headlights, using the moon's illumination. The path is short before opening into several parking places. I pull into one. There is nobody else around. He goes to unzip my fly as I put the car in park and turn off the ignition. I stop him.

"Let's get out. There's nobody here and it'll be more fun that way," I look at him and he approves with a look of excitement. My comment is answered with an opening of a door. We both get out of the car and go to the rear of my car. He goes to kiss me on the lips, but I turn so all he gets is a cheek. I undo his pants and pull them down. I get behind and push him onto the trunk with his pants and underwear around his ankles. He lays there like I'm a cop getting ready to frisk him. I reach into my left pocket as I rub my crotch against his bare ass. The metal glistens in the moonlight when it is pulled into the open air. I flip it open with one hand while I hold the other against his back, center his shoulder blades. His breathing is heavy in anticipation, so is mine. I slide the sharp knife between his upper ribs and into his left lung. My hand goes to his throat while I twist. A groan escapes his voice box. He tries to turn over to face me, but I won't let him. I push against him, full body. I remove the blade. A gush of air follows it. I hit him again and again and again. He tries to fight but I clench his larynx with my fist. His body collapses and I then allow it to crumple to the ground. I go to the driver door and pop the trunk. Black plastic lines the bare floor of my trunk. I removed the carpet a long time ago. I shove him inside and close it. I retrieve a container of antibacterial wipes and a flashlight from the glove box and check the area. I wipe the exterior of the car and cover blood splatter on the ground by kicking dirt atop any potential messes. Satisfied, I place everything into a plastic bag, jump into my car, and drive away.

*7*

Travis sits quietly in the darkness of his apartment pondering his next move. A lone lamp illuminates the living room. The television flickers but he's not paying attention to what's on. He misses Paul and it pains him inside not to be with him like they were so many years ago. He remembers the time they'd spent laying in the field, Paul's smiling face though he was a shattered, abused mess inside. He thinks about the hours of whispers and handholding. Paul's beautifully dark eyes which seemed to be the same color as the thoughts he had and the things he did. The difference between himself and Paul was that Paul had the balls to do the things Travis could only fantasize about doing.

After Paul was taken away by the police when they were fifteen, Travis thought he was going to die inside. He knew the plan to kill Paul's parents was his ticket to freedom, but he didn't realize it meant they would take him away. He hadn't thought the plan through completely. Travis watched from the bushes across the street as the police escorted Paul from the house with bags in-hand. Tears filled Travis' eyes. He wanted so badly to run over to him and hug him, to tell him everything was going to be okay, but that was a risk he wasn't willing to take. After all, it was Travis' plan in the first place. He watched painfully from afar as Paul is placed into the back of the police car and driven off to who knows where.

It isn't until Travis is in his early twenties before he finally finds Paul again. With the surge of the internet in its popularity, finding his old friend was easier. He typed Paul's name into a search engine. Travis had just broken down and purchased a computer, mostly for work purposes. The moment the internet was hooked-up and working, it was the first thing he did. Only a couple of websites were linked to Paul's name, a find old classmates' site and a realty one. After checking the old classmate site, he had no luck. He clicked on the other link and there it was. Paul's gorgeous face stood out from all the others on the site's homepage. His dark eyes stared back at Travis. His hair perfectly styled and his teeth brilliantly white within the smile. Excitement flowed through Travis' body. He'd finally found his purpose, his soul mate.

Travis put in for a transfer so he could move closer to Paul. He was doing well on the police force so he got little friction regarding the move. Travis kept his distance from Paul in the beginning. They had a past and, being a cop, Travis didn't want to take any risks. He followed from a distance one day. Paul was on his way home. His car pulled into the driveway and Travis drove past. He was careful not to get noticed as he watched through mirrored sunglasses and tinted windows. It was then that he saw Max standing on the front lawn with a little dog. He knew right away who the man was, Paul's man. His heart broke in his chest. The happiness he'd found dissipated. He smashed his closed fists against the steering wheel of his cruiser a couple times out of frustration. He calmed himself down and thought, _I've waited this long, I can wait a little longer._ Travis continued to keep his distance, but paid close attention to the man he loved.

It wasn't long before Travis stumbled upon Paul's secret. He sat quietly in his personal vehicle across from a bar Paul had entered an hour prior. He watched as Paul finally emerged. He wasn't alone. Travis continued to watch as they walked down the street. When they'd gotten far enough, Travis got out of his car to pursue them on foot. He stayed carefully in the shadows as much as he could. He watched as they entered Paul's apartment building and observed his lover leaving alone moments later. Travis knew what Paul was up to and he liked it. He liked it a lot.

*8*

"Did you have a good trip?" Paul asks as Max closes the front door to the house. He sets down his bags. It's Friday evening.

"We won the case if that's what you mean," Max approaches Paul from the rear and kisses him on the back of the neck. "I missed you." Max watches over Paul's shoulder as he pushes the chicken breasts around in a skillet. He rests his chin on Paul's shoulder. "Did anything interesting happen while I was away?"

Paul allows his thoughts to wander to the Hispanic man from the small town. The body was laid to rest along with the others late that same evening. "Nope, pretty much business as usual around here," Paul responds.

"Good," Max says, "how long until dinner's ready? I need a shower."

"I've still got to pop these in the oven for a bit. You've got time," Paul replies. Max kisses the back of his neck again and dismisses himself. He goes back to the entryway to retrieve his luggage and carries it with him to the bedroom. Paul hears the shower as it starts in the bathroom. The door is left open. He finishes browning the outside of the chicken breasts and places them into a dish. The oven is hot and ready. He puts them inside and sets a timer. He walks down the hall to the bathroom. A perfect silhouette shows through the clouded glass of the shower. Paul leans against the door frame and admires the lovely man in the shower. Max tips his head forward, allowing the water to flow over his face. Suds from the shampoo run down from his hair to his toes, touching everything along the way. "Feeling better?" Paul asks from the doorway.

"Much," Max's response is messed by the water flowing over his lips. He steps back and exhales deeply. "Thanks for making dinner."

"I know you've had a long week and didn't think you'd want to cook when you got home. I hope you like it. It'll be done in a few minutes." Paul begins to walk away.

"Okay, almost done." He hears from the hallway as he returns to the kitchen. Chelsea stares up at him. He then realizes he hasn't given her dinner yet.

"Sorry, baby," Paul goes to the cupboard to retrieve her food and dumps it into her dish. She immediately begins eating as though she's been starved for the last week. She wolfs down the morsels. Paul opens the oven door to check the chicken. Moisture boils and bubbles on the pan within. A thin mist of steam flows from the oven. He closes the door again. Paul opens the freezer and pulls out frozen vegetables. He cuts the bag and dumps its contents into a double boiler for steam cooking. Max enters the kitchen wearing a tank top and sweatpants, no socks. Paul admires his perfect body. _I couldn't have asked for a better man in my life,_ he thinks to himself. "Let's eat in the living room tonight. We'll watch some T.V. and relax a bit."

"Sounds good to me, need any help?" Max asks politely.

"Nope, if you could get the living room ready, I'll have dinner out to you soon. See if you can't find a good romantic comedy or something." Max winks at Paul and leaves the room. The timer beeps and he removes the chicken from the oven. The vegetables follow shortly. Paul plates everything perfectly and delivers the plates, silverware, and drinks to the living room. They enjoy dinner and a movie. The couple pauses long enough to clean up after dinner, for Paul to change clothes, and to adjust in each other's arms on the sofa. They stare up at the television until they both pass out on the couch, Paul behind Max with an arm securely in place beneath Max's neck.

Dreams of the Latino man from a couple days prior float inside Paul's head as he sleeps. The man reaches for Paul's crotch, fondling his package. Paul pushes his hand away gently as to not turn him off completely or seem as though he's not interested. They get out of the car and head toward the back as they did the other night. Paul removes the man's pants and underwear and gets behind him as he lies on the trunk. He rubs against him. He reaches into his pants pocket. There's nothing inside. He pushes his hand deeper in hoping he'd simply missed the knife. It's empty. The man stands and turns toward Paul.

"Is there something wrong?" he asks with a hollow voice. Paul looks at him. He notices a hard flesh against his leg as the man steps closer to him for a kiss. Paul retaliates with improvisation. His hands go to the man's throat and he pushes him against the car. His eyes get wide as the air disappears from his lungs...

A kick to the groin sends Paul to the hardwood floor with a thump. A painful shock shoots through him but it's momentary due to a quick realization of the situation.

"What the hell are you doing?" Max's voice fills Paul's eardrums. He looks up from the floor. Max rubs his throat. Redness engulfs his flesh. Paul immediately jumps up from the floor.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry," he pleads on his knees in front of Max as he places his hands on Max's thighs. "I don't know what happened." Max continues to hold his own throat as he sits up on the sofa. Paul's hands drop with his movement.

"Paul, Monday you're going to see someone about this. I can't do this anymore. Waking up to you whimpering or screaming, I just can't. You have to go see someone." Paul realizes he must. The last thing he wants to do is hurt the man he loves. Max is the only real thing he's had in a very long time and he nearly killed him.

"Okay," Paul looks deep into Max's eyes, "I'll go." Max stands up and pushes past Paul.

"Thank you," Max continues to hold his neck and rubs as he walks down the hallway to the bedroom. With tears in his eyes, Paul sits down the couch. He knows now is the time to leave Max alone. Max is angry and upset. Paul understands. He lies down on the sofa and begins to cry silently. _I always have to ruin everything. I'm so, so sorry, Max._ After a half-an-hour or so, Paul drifts off, knowing Max is in their bed alone.

*9*

The moonlight pours into the living room. Paul's eyes flutter violently while he sleeps on the sofa. His mind wanders. It flees from the criminal activity but dwells on the guilt. He dreams that he's gotten up for a stress-relieving run. He slips on his clothing and shoes. He ties them as perfectly as always, ensuring the bows are placed expertly on their appropriate sides. He sneaks out the front door and down the sidewalk toward the street in front of the house. The moon shines brightly as it hangs low in the sky. The air is cool and without breeze. He stretches carefully as he looks around the neighborhood. All of the lights within the houses are out. There is no noise. There's an eerie silence, no dogs barking, no crickets chirping.

He takes his first step toward the hill as he always does. His feet feel lighter than usual. His soles make a slight slapping noise as they hit the tar, but the sounds fall dead quickly. He thinks to himself how odd things seem to be. He continues his trek toward the incline of the hill surrounded by woods. Things quickly become different. The fresh pavement melts into the ground, leaving nothing but a well-traveled path in packed dirt. Paul keeps running. Grass sprouts from the path and trees spurt up from the earth. He stops. The path he's traveling is suddenly familiar. He takes a step forward. The tall grass of his swampy graveyard lies ahead. The flapping of wings invades his eardrums. He halts again. A gaggle of crows, twenty to thirty of them, flap in through the thick canopy of trees. They land on the branches, lining the unkempt path on both sides from above. The birds are like lights on a landing strip at an airport. Paul stares at them. They stare back. Then it begins with one. The crow closest to him starts a single caw from high on his perch in the tree. The others follow the note immediately. The sound resonates through the forest and carries forever. It cuts at Paul's eardrums like a knife. His hands go to his ears in an effort to muffle the shrilling banshee's call. He places the palms of his hands on either side of his head. The sound gets louder. He drops to his knees on the ground. Tears form in his eyes as nausea sets in his gut. His brain feels as though it's going to explode. He can't take it anymore. He screams as loudly as he can. They stop. He removes his cupped hands and looks up into the treetops. The black devils are gone. A set of hands place themselves on his shoulders from behind. He looks down at them. They are white with red fingernail polish.

His eyelids fly open, sweat beading on his forehead. He recognizes the ceiling immediately. He's home. He inhales deeply and sits up. He walks to the bathroom, closes the door, and turns on the spigot. He stares at himself in the mirror for a moment before rinsing his face. _What the hell is wrong with you?_ His mind is a jumbled mess. He's always had nightmares, but they're getting worse. He dries himself off and looks into the bedroom. Max sleeps soundly, his body facing the doorway. Paul goes inside and gets into bed. He wraps his arms tightly around Max from behind and closes his eyes. _What the hell is wrong with me?_ He thinks to himself as he drifts off to sleep with comfort in his arms.

*10*

The police station is quiet aside from Detective Brownlee's fumbling through the paperwork on his desk. Several folders are lined up perfectly before his eyes on the surface. Each one has a different name. There is nothing similar between any of them except for one thing, they are all missing. It's been months and the files keep coming in. He can't help but think there is some sort of connection between the missing persons. All of them disappeared within a fifty-mile radius of Langley. He just can't put his finger on a motive, a suspect, or a likeness with the victims. The local police have conducted their searches. They've done everything within their power to find the missing persons.

A sudden break in the silence makes Jake jump with a start. His telephone rings. The caller identification comes up without a number, obviously blocked. He picks up the receiver.

"Hello," he answers questioningly.

"I know what you're up to and I think it would be best for you to give up," the voice is muffled and deep. "Consider this a warning." That is all the caller says as the phone clicks. A surge of heat pours into Detective Brownlee's head. He doesn't take threats lightly. He tries to *69 the call but it doesn't work.

"Damn it," he yells to himself as he hangs the phone up.

Travis turns back around, walks a few steps, and hands the cellphone back to the woman after deleting the call in the history log.

"Thanks, I really appreciate it," he says politely as he smiles at her. "My brother should be here any minute." She nods at him and walks away. A cool breeze cuts through Travis' hoodie. He pulls the zipper tighter toward his neck. He's been watching Detective Brownlee from afar, just as he's been observing Paul. The last thing he wants is for the love of his life to get caught and he will stop at nothing to make sure that he doesn't. Travis steps off the curb and walks across the street. The streetlamps begin to flicker on with the arrival of dusk. He knows Brownlee won't stop, but he's ready to deal with him when the time comes.

Detective Brownlee leans back in his office chair and puts his hands over his eyes. He exhales a deep breath of frustration. _I'll crack this son-of-a-bitch even if it takes years,_ he thinks. He decides it's time to go home and get some sleep. He's no good without a few hours of sleep. The stranger's voice echoes in his head as he walks past the desk sergeant and out the front door.

*11*

"I've made you an appointment to meet with Doctor Phillips today," Max announces from across the breakfast table. For the first time in five years, the day prior wasn't special as it usually was. Paul and Max sat around watching television. Max was keeping his distance. A light red ring lined the lower part of his neck. Luckily the bruising could be covered by a high collar and tie combo. "You're appointment is at 2 o'clock this afternoon. I wrote the address on the pad on the refrigerator." They have a stack of Post-Its with a magnetic backing on it. Paul looks at Max.

"I'm really sorry for what I did to you, Max," he says quietly.

"I know you are, Paul, but I think it's important that you see a professional. I can't deal with these nighttime outbursts anymore." Max's eyes begin to tear up. "As much as I love you, there are some things I can't do." He gathers up his plate and exits to the kitchen, leaving Paul to himself. Paul hears the water running and the dishes clacking. Max reenters the dining room, straightening his tie. He kisses Paul on the forehead. "I love you," he says simply. Paul reaches for him, but Max back away and leaves the room before he can actually lay hands on him in apology. The front door closes. A tear dances in Paul's eye. He picks up his cellphone from the table and hits his work number.

"Hey, Diane, this is Paul. I'm not going to be in today," he explains. "Yeah, taking a sick day," he listens for a moment. "Okay, thanks," he hangs up. His nerves suddenly go into overdrive. What if the doctor finds out? What am I going to do? Random questions keep popping into his head. He notices Chelsea looking up at him next to his chair. "I know, girl," he retrieves his partially eaten breakfast and goes to the kitchen. The dog follows closely behind. After placing his things in the dishwasher, Paul goes to take a shower and then lies on the couch to watch television. He watches the clock as it moves more slowly than he ever remembers it doing in the past. He observes the pictures on the television as he flips through the channels. Chelsea lies on his chest and he strokes her fur soothingly. Questions continue to haunt his mind while he waits.

*12*

Travis sits at his desk in the precinct. He pretends to fill out reports on the computer as he watches Detective Brownlee drumming over multiple case files on his desk. Up until now, Travis has been nothing but a plotter. He's never committed a crime of his own, but the time was getting near. All he needs is an expression of breakthrough from the detective and that will be his go ahead. Everything is ready. He gets up from his desk and approaches Brownlee. He stops at the cubicle wall and rests his arm against it at the elbow.

"Hey, Detective," he starts the conversation.

"Hey," Jake replies without looking up from the photos.

"How's everything going with the Freemont case?" Travis asks to gauge the detective's reaction.

"I don't think that's any of your concern, Sergeant," his irritation is enough for Travis to know things aren't going according the Brownlee's plan.

"Sorry, I was just curious," Travis adds apologetically. "I saw it on the news the other day and you've got all these files, I figured you'd be the guy with the inside on the case." Jake continues to stare at Travis.

"Not that it's any of your business, but I haven't got anything new. Even if I did, I don't think you'd be the first to know."

_This prick deserves what he's got coming to him,_ Travis thinks as he smiles at the detective. "I didn't mean to bother you," Travis maintains his composure and walks away. Brownlee goes back to his files. Travis gets a drink of water from the water cooler while his mind plays with inventive ways to rid Paul and him of their problems. _It's only a matter of time,_ he thinks happily as he sips the cool water from the Styrofoam cup.

*13*

Time for Paul's appointment finally arrives as he puts the finishing touches on his hair. He makes the final adjustments while looking in the bathroom mirror. _I'm not ready for this,_ he thinks as he looks into his own eyes. _You can do this, Paul, you can do this._ He gives his reflection a pep talk and breathes deeply for a moment while psyching him up for the appointment. Satisfied, he leaves the house after patting Chelsea on the head and assuring her he'll be back soon. He gets into his car and exits the driveway. The doctor's office isn't far from his other domicile, he notes after looking at Max's note. _Conveniently located,_ Paul thinks as he drives down the street toward downtown Langley.

He finds a metered parking place across the street from the office. He gets out of his car and looks up at the building. It is several stories high with a mirrored exterior. He's driven past the building several times and hadn't even realized what it contained. His nerves play with him as he passes a fountain gently spewing water from the top. The liquid flows beautifully down the three layers in an uneven trickle. Sparkling coins litter the bottom of the fountain, some sprinkle the basin above it as well. Paul passes a sign that reads _Medical Professionals_ in a block lettering stainless steel mounted on a thick cement block. He continues passed the front and enters the building. The interior is tighter than he'd expected. There is no grand foyer or visitors' information desk. There are lists on the walls with doctors' names and suite numbers. There are also three elevator doors. Even the entrance is sterile. Paul recalls the suite number from Max's note and pushes the elevator button for going up. The door opens immediately. _I could just leave now,_ he thinks as he steps inside and the doors close. He stops for a moment. _I have to do this, if not for me, for Max._ An image of Max's handsome face looms before his mind's eye. It contains a look of longing and need for Paul to get better. He presses the button for the third floor and waits. The butterflies in his belly begin to flutter more violently with each passing floor. The doors open after a beeping elevator announcement of arrival from above. Paul steps out into the hallway. A sign on the wall to his front tells him which way to go for the suite he's seeking. It's located a few doors down the hall. He notices the nameplate on the window _Dr. Phillips Psychiatry_ and he opens the door with ease. He's convinced himself it's what he needs and there's no turning back. Paul pushes the bantering butterflies from his mind, but the feeling still looms within his gut. A pleasant looking woman with narrow glasses and a tight permanent sits behind a reception desk.

"Hello there. You must be Paul?" she greets him kindly.

"Yes, ma'am, I have a 2 o'clock appointment," he responds awkwardly.

"Doctor Phillips will be right with you. Have a seat." She directs him with an open hand toward a corner containing four chairs. He nods to her an acceptance and sits down. It's only a minute or two before a balding, gray-haired man measuring under five-and-a-half feet comes into the lobby. He enters from the only other door in the room besides the ingress which is located next to the reception desk. He approaches Paul with an outstretched wrinkly hand. Paul stands to greet him.

"You must be Paul," the old man says as the two shake hands. "It's nice to meet you."

"It's nice to meet you as well," Paul returns the pleasantry as their hands disconnect. His hands are sweat from the anxiety of the visit. He brushes them against his pant legs to dab them off. _I wish I'd have thought to do that prior to the handshake,_ he thinks. He notices the doctor doing the same. "Sorry, I'm a little nervous. I've never been to a shrink before."

"Nothing to be nervous about, Paul, and if I had a dime for every time a patient greeted me with a sweaty handshake, I'd be rich," he leads Paul to the door he'd entered the room from and opens it for him. The doctor offers Paul to lead the way. _It's not like I know where I'm going,_ Paul thinks again. He takes the doctor's offer and then steps off to the side for him to show the way. There is a short corridor with two doors. They enter the right one. The office is cozy looking. The décor is in dark browns and earth tones. Paul realizes the psychiatrists' offices on television aren't simply stereotypes; this one was proof of it.

"Please, have a seat," Doctor Phillips offers Paul the obvious choice. The seat is kind of a sofa meets chair combo. He sits. The leather makes a rubbing sound as his butt meets the fabric. The doctor assumes his position in a chair next to Paul's and grabs a small tablet and pencil from a table nearby. Doctor Phillips crosses one leg over the other. "Let's get started shall we?" he asks the question and immediately flows into, "Max tells me you've been having nightmares?" The butterflies start battering Paul's interior stomach lining.

"I've had nightmares for as long as I can remember. I didn't exactly have the best childhood, doc," Paul knows the questions are going to be asked anyway and doesn't see the point in beating around the bush. Doctor Phillips begins scribbling in his notepad.

"What happened to you, Paul?" the doctor stops writing and looks Paul dead in the eyes. It's one of the most seriously genuine looks Paul's ever seen. It's like the man actually cares about his job. It makes Paul even more nervous. There has only been one person in the world Paul's told his innermost secrets to and that was a long time ago.

"Doctor Phillips, I need to know that anything I tell you will stay between us. Max cannot know what I tell you," Paul looks as deeply into the doctor's eyes as he is to him.

"Paul," the words are quiet but strong, "I can lose my license for breaking the doctor-patient confidentiality laws and I've obviously been licensed for a while." He chuckles a bit. "You've got nothing to worry about." The Doctor Phillips sits back against his chair, legs crossed, pad resting against his thigh, and pen in-hand.

"My mother hated me," the words flow easily from his mouth.

"What makes you think she hated you, Paul?" His pen works against the paper.

"She told me how much she hated me," Paul's face remains stone-solid and without expression when he mentions her anger toward him.

"People often times say things they don't mean."

"I had welts on the backs of my legs for weeks to prove she meant what she said." The doctor looks at Paul.

"So, you experienced verbal and physical abuse when you were growing up?"

"Yeah," Paul responds simply and with an undertone of sarcasm.

"Where was your father?"

"He left when I was too young to remember him."

"Do you know why he left?"

"She never said."

"How old were you before the beatings stopped?"

"Fifteen," Paul answers plainly.

"Why do you suppose the abuse stopped then?"

"Because she died," Paul says the words before he realized they were coming out. The flow in the conversation is so eased.

"How did she die, Paul?" He scribbles.

"They said it was carbon monoxide poisoning."

"Did you find her?"

"Yeah," Paul responds.

"How did that make you feel, to find her dead?"

"Honestly, it was sort of a relief. I knew my pain was finally over."

"What happened next, Paul?"

"The police came and took me to a foster home."

"How was that for you?" Paul's mind starts to wander. He's not sure if he should tell the psychiatrist how that life went for him. He doesn't know if the accounts of molestation that happened even after the death of his mother's perverted man died were things he should be telling the doctor. While in the foster home the boys ran away together. The criminal was another foster child who was only a few short months from turning eighteen. Paul didn't allow him to see his milestone. Paul manipulated him, getting him away from the foster parents' home and then he gave him what he'd deserved. They ran away together, but only one came back.

"It wasn't a bad life." Paul tries not to pause for too long before blurting out the words. He recalls giving the boy the same thing he'd given him. He tied him to a tree after knocking him unconscious and penetrated him until he bled. His muffled cries turned Paul on even more knowing the anguish was being returned. After Paul was finished with the criminal who was now the victim, he slit his throat slowly. He whispered in the boy's ear while the tears rolled down his cheeks. After he was dead, he cut him free. His body fell to the ground with a thud. Paul wrapped it in a trash bag and disposed of it in a remote pond after weighting it down.

"Paul?" the doctor's words cut through the images.

"Huh," Paul asks after snapping back to reality.

"I asked you a question. Was there anything further traumatizing in your childhood that would cause you to have these reoccurring nightmares?"

"Not that I can recall," Paul answers. The doctor looks at his watch.

"I tell you what." Doctor Phillips flips his notepad closed, sets it on the nearby table, and gently places the pencil down upon it. "We're out of time for today, but I would like you back next week. Does that work for you, Paul?" The men stand and shake hands again.

"Sure," Paul feels a bit of relief in knowing nothing vital has been revealed. The doctor leads him out and tells his receptionist to schedule Paul for next week, same time.

"Thank you, Paul," he waves as he stands with the office door open, "I'll see you next week then."

"I appreciate it, Doctor Phillips," Paul answers as he notices the doctor's next patient waiting in the exact seat he'd sat in before. Paul glances at him and leaves the office. He enters the elevator, descends, and exits at the ground floor. He leaves the building and fumbles for his keys in his right pocket. As he pulls the keychain from his pocket, Max's note floats gently to the ground. Paul doesn't notice the police car parked in the alleyway just across the street as he gets into his car. Paul pulls away from the curb. The policeman hops out and runs toward the office building. He picks up the note and reads it. _Paul, what are you doing?_ He asks himself silently as he walks back to his cruiser with the note in his hand.

*14*

Paul fumbles with a hot pan as he hears the front door open and close. Max pokes his head in.

"Hey," he returns to the entryway as he slips his shoes off at the door, "how'd did it go today?"

"It went fine," Paul continues moving vegetables around the frying pan. "Doctor Phillips seems like a fairly good doctor. Hopefully he can help with the nightmares." Max walks into the house with his suit jacket and shoes in-hand.

"I hope so. Thank you for going," he continues to the left of the kitchen down the hallway to their bedroom. He returns shortly with Chelsea in tow, apparently she'd been sleeping on the bed and he woke her. Max steps in behind Paul, wrapping his arms around him. He kisses him gently on the back of the neck. The gesture is appreciated by Paul. It lets him know that Max isn't angry with him anymore.

"So, are we okay?" Paul asks as he works the pan.

"Yeah, do you have another appointment?" Max inquires as he goes to the cupboards to retrieve the dishes for the meal.

"Next week," Paul answers as the clink of glasses ding against the countertop.

"Good," Max replies as he fumbles with the forks in the drawer, "I just want you to get better."

"Me too," Paul mumbles as he tries to pushes the urges from his mind. It's been awhile since he's acted on his impulses and it's starting to tear at his mind. He ignores the inner voices as he turns off the burner and starts dishing out the meal evenly.

Just outside, a police cruiser rolls by slowly. Travis watches the back of Paul's head and the disgusting longing in Max's eyes as he looks at his partner. Max smiles and it makes Travis angry to the deepest depths of his soul. Rage surges through him. _It won't be long now, you son-of-a-bitch,_ he thinks as the flames flicker in his eyes. The two leave the room. He watches as their silhouettes retreat beyond his viewing. He picks up speed and leaves the neighborhood.

Travis returns to the police station and drops off his car. He walks across the parking lot to his personal vehicle, unlocks it, and gets in. The image of the two men together continues to replay itself inside his mind. It taunts him. He slams his hands against the steering wheel. All his years of sitting in the wayside, the time wasted. The love he'd had for Paul has never changed. If anything, it's turned into a sick obsession. He remembers the times they'd shared. He recalls how special he'd once felt. He used to be included in Paul's life. Now Paul lies on the couch of a wrinkly, old psychiatrist. He tells him all his secrets. It has to stop. _I can't allow the secrets to be exposed,_ Travis thinks, _I have to do something about it before they take him away from me forever._ He places the shifter into "drive" and takes off out of the parking garage. Plans formulate inside his head as a cool breeze messes his hair from his window.

*15*

Paul and Max lie in their bed. Paul's skin touches Max's back. A gentle breeze exhales in through their bedroom window as a ceiling fan circles above their sleeping bodies. Paul's mind floats to the dark place it always seems to find. The leather makes his legs and back sweat against its surface. He stares up at the office's ceiling tiles. He can feel his own mouth moving, but he doesn't hear any words escaping his lips. His eyes go to the man seated in the chair nearby, Doctor Phillips. The psychiatrist doodles and nods his head. Paul continues to talk and to stare at the man. His pencil continues to move as he speaks. The motions start slowly at first, but as he talks, the writing utensil seemingly becomes a blur. Doctor Phillips concentrates on his tablet as the motions start to become circular nonsense. Paul watches as the tracing gets faster, and faster, and faster. Beads of sweat form on the doctor's forehead and quickly form into droplets, running down his face. The drippings dribble from his jawbone and chin, dousing the paper. The splashes splatter off of the tablet and spray into the air. The doodling suddenly stops. The old man raises his eyes toward Paul. The eyes aren't the eyes of Doctor Phillips. They are his mother's eyes. The possessed body stands as the notebook falls from its knees to the floor.

"You little faggot!" The voice screams, it's hers as well. Paul jumps at the sight. The doctor darts at him, using the pencil as a knife. He pushes Paul back down onto his back with an abnormal amount of strength. He stabs Paul repeatedly in the thigh. Blood spews from his wounds. He raises his hands in order to protect himself from injury. The writing utensil's sharp lead end jabs through the palm of his hand and pulls out immediately. In vein, Paul attempts to protect himself. The stabbing continues over, and over, and over again. Paul's eyes shoot open. His breathing is sporadic. He quickly rolls away from Max as to not disturb him. His arm remains pinned under his mate. He looks up at the ceiling fan with wide eyes as he wipes the sweat from his brow with the free hand. He stifles his breathing and it begins to slow. He turns his eyes toward the open window. The trickling of a late autumn rain spatters outside softly. The breeze pushes the sheer curtains slightly. Paul concentrates on the peacefulness of the raindrops pattering against the ground outside and closes his eyes.

Travis sits quietly outside the old man's home. It's a modest Victorian with a large porch. A white bench swing sways slightly from its chains near the front door. The domicile is two stories but not overwhelming in width. The rain drips quietly on the roof of his car. He watches in the dark. _I have to know what it feels like,_ he thinks while observing the house. The lights had gone out around 10 o'clock and the psychiatrist seemed to be alone. Travis had done his homework prior to the stakeout. A person can find out anything about anyone on the internet. Nearing 3 a.m., it is soon time to go in. As soon as Travis can work up the courage to make his move. The witching hour, the most quiet hour of the night, also the most haunting. He'd worked the nightshift in the past and knows this is the best time for the worst things to happen. He'll have to be quick about it. He can't take any chances. Travis looks at himself in the rearview. _You can do this man!_ His blue eyes stare back at him seriously, a scowl across his brow. _Let's go!_ The moment the last word spills out inside his head, he opens the car door. He looks both ways down the street to ensure there is no traffic. He scurries up the sidewalk toward the house and then sneaks along it to the side. There is a door near the driveway located on the side of the house. He checks the knob, locked. But there is only a knob lock on the door, no deadbolt. He pulls his tools from his pocket and begins working on the lock. It takes a few moments, but it soon tumbles free. After putting his lock picks back into his pocket, Travis eases the door open. He steps slowly inside and stops to listen. The house is silent, aside from a resonating snore in a nearby room. He edges his way inside toward the annoying noise. The wooden floor creaks slightly. Travis stops for a moment as the sound continues, it's his go ahead. At the end of the hallway, there is a dark room. It seems to be the origin of the snoring. He stays tight against the wall as he tiptoes toward the sound. He looks inside. The old man is alone. _This is going to be easier than I thought,_ Travis thinks. He rushes into the room, pounces onto the aged body, and wraps his gloved fingers tightly around the man's throat. The old man's eyes quickly become wide with fear and questioning. The man tries to reach up with his arms to resist, but Travis' straddle has him completely pinned and helpless. Adrenaline flows like a floodgate through Travis' veins as he chokes the soul from the old man. _Now I know why Paul does it! It feels so good!_ Travis thinks as his eyes light up and a smile immerges, replacing the snarl on his face. The psychiatrist stops struggling. His eyes stare blankly at his murderer. Travis gives a final squeeze and a slight jerk. He releases slowly, waiting a moment for any remaining responses. Satisfied, he picks up the body, thrusts it over his shoulder, and walks out the door. He relocks the knob behind him. _I've got just the place for you,_ he thinks as he sneaks back to his car carefully.

*16*

I enter the building and go inside the elevator. I go up to the floor for my appointment. I approach the door to Doctor Phillips' office and pull on the handle. The door doesn't move. _My appointment was today right?_ I think as I look at my watch. I try the door again as if I'd made a mistake the first time. It's locked. I then notice a sign on the glass next to the door: _All appointments cancelled until further notice,_ the sign says in big, bold lettering. I think to myself how unprofessional it was of Doctor Phillips to not have his secretary call or something to let people know their appointments have been cancelled. I walk back to the elevator and get inside. As soon as the doors open at the ground floor, I am greeted by the fidgety man who'd been in the office after my last appointment.

"All of the Doctor's appointments are cancelled until further notice," I say to the man before he can make the same mistake that I did. The man's eyes leave the floor and meet mine awkwardly and only for a moment. Our glances hit each other quickly as if we are two young children experiencing their first kiss. Embarrassment takes over as the children look in opposite directions. I find the man's lack of self-confidence intriguing. It suddenly ignites a spark that I've been trying to keep isolated for as long as I can. It's time. I deliver the question gently, "Since neither of us has anything to do for the next hour, how about catching a quick drink?" I make an aggressive, flirtatious first move, knowing the man would never have the courage to do it. The man's eyes light up, but there is a questioning of motive hiding behind his soft, brown eyes as he looks into mine for a moment.

"You don't even know me," the man says to me with an inquisitive tone and inflection. I immediately reach my hand out to the man.

"I'm Paul," the handshake is met after a moment.

"My name's David," his voice is soft yet masculine.

"It's nice to meet you, David," the hands drop. I walk to the door and hold it open for him. "Where would you like to go?"

"I don't know. I haven't really been in Langley for very long, a couple of months," David walks out the door into the sunlight. We start walking toward our cars parked on the opposite side of the street. David seems to be getting excited over drinks with a stranger, I notice as we step across the asphalt to the sidewalk on the other side. I can tell by his voice and mannerisms.

"I tell you what. I know this great little bar, quiet, pretty good liquor, calm and quaint. Do you want to drive or would you like me to?" I bombard the man with quick, well-thought out answers so it's harder for him to change his mind.

"Well, I guess I can drive," David answers.

"Sounds good to me, you don't mind bringing me back afterward?" I keep it going.

"It's no problem. The place isn't far is it?" David asks as he opens his door and pops the automatic locks. We get in the automobile. The leather seats make their usual annoying sounds beneath our butts as we slide in. I've never really been a big fan of leather.

"No, it's about a mile from here," I tell him as I close door. David starts up the engine and pulls away from the curb. I navigate him to the location. The usual excited feeling of the soon-to-be satisfied pleasure floods through my body. The added rush of daylight takes my mind for a more intense ride. Adrenaline pushes itself along, the floodgates have been opened. We get out of the car and go inside. Luckily, there isn't much traffic. The work day is coming to a close soon. We sit at a quiet booth near the door. There isn't anyone else inside the bar. Neon lighting decorates the walls with beer promotions and labels. We each order a drink and begin to chat.

"So, you haven't lived here long. Where are you from?" I don't usually like getting to know my victims, but it's still day time and this will be a first for me if everything goes according to plan. His awkward glances from the bubbles in his beer and the condensation droplets falling to the coaster are strangely arousing to me. He seems to be doing everything within his power to play up the shy little boy routine.

"I'm originally from Washington," he responds quietly.

"D.C., or the state?" I ask him in order to keep the conversation flowing.

"The state," he replies.

"I hear it's really beautiful up there," I say to him.

"Yeah, I miss it sometimes. The landscape's not quite the same here."

"So, what brought you here?"

"Work actually, but no soon after I arrive, I get laid off." There is a sudden fire in his eyes. "Bastards, I'm getting unemployment now which is enough to pay the bills."

"Do you mind my asking what happened?"

"They didn't say. I came to work one day, the boss came into my office, and he told me I was done. Enough about me, what do you do?"

"I'm in real estate actually, though the market is a bit slow at the moment." I take a sip of my beer.

"Really? Not about the market being slow, but I could really use a cheaper place to live. Do you know of any?"

"Actually, I do know of a couple." I can't help but think how quickly and easily this one is falling in.

"Could we go check them out?"

"Now," I ask him. I'm a little surprised.

"If you don't mind," David asks me. _Of course I don't mind,_ I think to myself. I throw a few dollars on the table for both of our drinks and we walk out. The rush is peaking quickly and I'm trying not to get overexcited as we leave the bar. We get into his car and I direct him to my secret downtown apartment. The sun is beginning to set, but the streetlights have yet to come on. We pull into the private garage and go inside. As we near the door to the dwelling, he turns to me and finally looks me dead in the eyes.

"Thank you, Paul," he immediately lunges for me. His lips drive into mine. His lack of self-confidence has been replaced due to my showing of attention. I allow him to get a bit of his desire out and kiss him back. He grabs the back of my head and my hair as he pushes his tongue into my mouth. I reciprocate but remain separated mentally from my physical actions. After a few moments, he breaks away. He smiles at me. I grin back even though I am sickened by what I've just allowed to happen. I go to unlock the door.

"Okay, are you ready to see it?" I ask him. There is a bit of sarcasm in my voice. I just want him dead right now. I open the door and he walks inside. He reaches back and grabs my hand. I close the door behind us. The sudden smell of decay hits my nostrils.

"What is that smell?" Apparently David's nasal cavity ingests it also. My apartment has never carried the smells of my victims. I've always been extremely neat and clean with everything that I've done.

"I don't know," I answer him honestly despite my plans and his being unworthy of an explanation. The questions floating through my mind make it hard to concentrate on the task at hand.

"Oh my God, where's the bathroom?" A look of panic comes across his face. I point down the hall. He runs from me to the restroom, dropping my hand as he leaves. I sniff with disgust around the room. The sounds of vomiting escape the bathroom as they echo from the toilet. I wander toward the hall. The smell gets stronger. It's then that I see him. Doctor Phillips corpse lies on the bed in the back bedroom. _What the hell is going on?_ The same room where I'd killed Theresa weeks prior. I go to the hall closet and reach inside. My hand comes out, revealing a wooden handle. I'd acquired the mattock handle in case I'd needed it. Now I needed it. I push open the door to the bathroom. Shy, little David kneels in front of the toilet. He doesn't seem to be puking anymore. That no longer matters to me. I cock back with both arms, the handle fully armed. With his face buried in the toilet bowl, I crack him in the back of the head over and over again. It wasn't what I'd had planned for him, but this will have to do. I hit him again and again. I hit him until his body falls limp on the bathroom floor. My breathing is accelerated well beyond the norm. I stop swinging and lay my hand upon the top of the handle like a batter assessing before a swing. I inhale deeply and then exhale. The bathroom is a mess. I let the handle fall to the ground and leave the room. I go to the bedroom and look inside. The smell is no longer an issue for my senses. The fact that I have two dead bodies to move, one of which, I didn't put here, is causing my mind to go into overdrive. All I can think is _I'm fucked now! Someone knows and I'm fucked!_

*17*

Travis sits quietly in the darkness of his small home with thoughts of cruelty running through his mind. Shadows flicker violently from the television's images as it dances against the wall. He stares blankly at the screen while his hands mentally wrap around the throat of the helpless, old psychiatrist. A pleasurable rush of self-satisfaction flows through his veins. Know he knows why Paul does what he does. Know he fully understands the drive that his secret lover from the past houses. The movie in his mind replays over and over. A rush of nearly orgasmic proportions encompasses him each time the event recycles. _Now that I know I have it in me, I think it's time to make my move._ His thoughts stay private. A glass of water forms a ring on the surface of the end table next to his recliner. The droplets pirouette their way down the sides while the ice cubes tango gently within.

Jake sits quietly at his desk. The stack of paperwork continues to get higher and the solutions remain unseen. His auburn hair is messed and unsettled atop his head, fingers too busy within. He closes his eyes and loses himself in unrelated thought. Detective Brownlee is not one to give up. He loves his job, but this, by far, is one of the most frustrating things he's seen since joining the police force. He'd given up on many things in the past. He'd run away from a lot, mostly the women in his life and his family. Everyone has secrets. Jake is no exception to the rule. He'd lived his life like any other child with a "normal" upbringing. His parents remained married, defying the odds of the society around them. Everyone seems to be getting a divorce these days. It was the easier way most of the time. You get sick of someone and you get rid of them. It seemed to Jake that the rural, quiet life was the existence for him. He enjoyed little league games and fishing. He liked playing varsity football in school. The thing he didn't like was trying to live the life his parents wanted him to. Jake's secret was a big deal. It may not seem like one to some people, but to him, it was a life or death secret. Though he'd played to role of the average run-of-the-mill, small town athlete, there was more to Jake. He didn't enjoy the company of women. He'd known he was gay since the day he realized the meaning of attraction. But, coming from a family who was very religious and also having an expected image to uphold, Jake denied his homosexuality. He denied it for as long as he could anyway. There was a boy on the football team. He and Jake had become fairly good friends. By their senior year in high school, they seemed inseparable. Jake had become attracted to Sean but he wasn't sure the feeling was mutual. They'd gone to a party with their other football buddies. The party involved booze. It was one of their last celebrations before the big day, graduation. The young men hung out for a while, playing drinking games. Eventually, the night became early morning. Sean and Jake went to Sean's car. They had no intention of driving, a place to get out of the elements and pass out until the rising sun woke them up. Sean got into the driver's side of the car and Jake in the passenger's. They reclined their individual seats. The young men looked at each other and laughed a bit. Their giddy drunken state clouded Jake's judgment. As he sat staring into his best friend's eyes, he couldn't help himself any longer. _It's now or never,_ he thought. He sat up partially and went in for a kiss. Jake was surprised when Sean didn't refuse him. His friend didn't flinch. It was as though he'd been waiting for just as long and was too afraid. Jake didn't know why Sean didn't deny him, maybe it was the alcohol, he wondered then. The two men kissed for what seemed like hours. They went a little further than only kissing, but soon passed out in each other's arms. They awoke to tapping on the driver's window. They sprang up in their seats. The morning sun was fully shining. Embarrassment flowed through their veins while one of their teammates stood laughing outside. Sean quickly turned the key in the ignition as Jake tried desperately to hide his own face. He knew they'd already revealed all that needed revealing. Sean dropped him off at home. The boys said nothing to each other on the drive. As Jake got out of the car he said, "Thanks for the ride," to ashamed to look his best friend in the eyes, he stared downward, "See you at school on Monday?" Sean acknowledged him with a muffled _yeah_ and drove off. Jake didn't see Sean at school on Monday. Jake never saw Sean again. The funeral was closed casket. Sean couldn't bear the thought of facing his classmates. He blew his brains out with his father's shotgun, so the story goes. Jake didn't think it'd be something Sean would do but there was nothing he could do about it. Jake cried in solitude, too ashamed that he was the cause of his friend's death. Nobody said anything to Jake about the preceding events, though he knew they all knew. The stares were a telltale sign.

A few weeks later, Jake graduated and joined the police force. He tried to leave the bad behind. He never truly knew if Sean had killed himself or if someone had done it to him. He tried to leave it alone. He graduated from the police force with high marks and chose to move as far away from home as he could without getting involved in too big of a city. He settled in Langley and everything had been quiet.

Detective Brownlee opens his eyes. A lone tear falls from his cheek and splashes onto his desk. He quickly wipes the moisture from his face with his fingers and returns to the task he's been tolling over for what seems to be decades.

*18*

Paul wipes the blood from around the bathroom tile. The rancid smell still looms inside the entire apartment but is diminishing through the open windows now that the bodies are gone. He pushes the sponge back into the depths of the bleach water and goes back to scrubbing. _What is happening? How could anyone know what I've done? Why haven't they come to get me?_ Random thoughts run through his head as he scrubs desperately between the tiles. He splashes a little extra disinfecting water on the grouted creases. The vapor from the bucket and the liquid on the floor combines with that of decomposed flesh. Nausea kicks Paul in the stomach. The knots begin to twist and turn within. He takes a breath in an attempt to lessen the queasiness. It has an opposing effect. Paul's muscles start to contract and squeeze. He crawls quickly to the toilet. Blood spatters dance before his eyes. The smell of vomit resonates from within the bowl. His throat tightens and he throws up. His stomach pushes again and again. His eyes water and the tears mingle with the mucus below. The hurling subsides after a number of dry heaves. Paul pulls himself up with aide from the window ledge above. He pushes the window open further and takes a deep breath. The fresh air fills his lungs. Tightness in his bronchiole tubes makes it difficult to catch a fully cleansing inhalation. He starts with slow breaths. His hands keep his upper body steady atop the window ledge. _I can't do this anymore,_ he thinks as he inhales and exhales. _I have to stop before it's too late._ Paul looks back at the bucket. The sponge floats on top of the water, permanently stained. The water is murky beneath it. _I need to finish this and be done forever, no matter what kinds of urges I get. I'm done._ He takes a final breath before resuming cleanup duties on the floor, toilet, and walls. After he's satisfied, he dumps the water into the toilet and gets more solution ready for a thorough cleaning of the bedroom. All evidence must be disposed of. _I don't know who knows, but I have to do whatever I can to make sure I'm not caught._ Paul scrubs feverishly until the odor of decomposition is eliminated. He finishes the job, cleans himself up, and returns home. He can't stop himself from worrying. He's knows it's just a matter of time before things unravel right before his eyes and his hands are tied like so many of his victims in the past.

*19*

The bright afternoon light pours in through the sheer curtains of the psychiatrist's house. Crime scene investigators search the home in hopes of finding some sort of clue as to where the doctor has gone.

"There doesn't seem to have been any kind of a struggle, Detective," a young man, one of the CSI people says to Jake. "The door jab wasn't forced, all the windows are locked, and there's nothing broken." Brownlee nods and continues looking around for himself, hoping for hidden clues. A light flashes near the base of a cordless phone sitting on its cradle. He presses the _play_ button with a latex protected fingertip.

"Doctor, where are you? There are patients waiting," her voice is gentle yet frazzled. She ends the message with a deep sigh. There are three more recordings that follow, all roughly in the same context. Jake is already aware of the fact that the doctor's secretary was the one who called the police to report his disappearance. She'd gone to his home after locking up the office and hanging an appointment cancellation notice on the door. When he didn't answer her calls or knocks, she decided to call the police. She was distraught. She was not a suspect. Why would a poor secretary nearing retirement eliminate the only source of income? Detective Brownlee has his suspicions but he isn't ready to jump to any conclusions just yet.

"Hey, what's going on?" A familiar voice enters Jake's mind from somewhere behind him. He turns to look and his suspicions are confirmed.

"What are you doing here? This is a little beyond your expertise," the Detective doesn't hide his annoyance of Travis' presence.

"Dispatch said they needed someone to come over here and cordon off the crime scene," he leans against the nearest door frame a couple of feet from where Jake's standing.

"Well, don't you think you should be outside doing that then?"

"You know, Jake, or should I say _Detective,_ I'm over it. It sure would be nice if you could move on too," he turns toward the door of the house, "You're creating a real hostile work environment for me." Travis leaves the home and Jake to his thoughts. Jake inhales deeply, holds it inside for a moment, and then exhales a cleansing breath. He realizes how upset he is by Travis' appearance. He's done everything within his power to avoid Travis since they broke up a few months ago. Although Jake was the one to make the decision, he still isn't over the reason behind the breakup. Like most of his past experiences, he was cheated on again. It seems to him like there is never going to be a _Mister Right_ and he is having a hell of a time dealing with that reality. Loneliness had been replaced by homicide and Jake has every intention on maintaining focus until he figures this thing out.

"Detective," Jake jumps from the surprise of the voice from behind him, "sorry, we've dusted every inch of this place and can't find anything. It's like this old guy was abducted by aliens or something." Brownlee turns toward the young CSI guy again.

"Just keep looking. There has to be something here. Old guys don't just wander from their beds and disappear into the night." Jake runs his fingers through his hair and exhales deeply again as they run down the length of his face. He blinks for an extended period of time. _I can't believe this shit,_ he yells inside his own mind. Frustration is a feeling he's becoming a little all too familiar with.

Paul lays silently next to Max in their bed. He stares blankly at the ceiling as he listens to the deep breaths of his lover. Chelsea sleeps soundly near their feet; a random whimper immerges every so often. Paul's eyes glimmer as the moon comes from beneath the clouds and peeks inside the bedroom. It then disappears again, bringing with it darkness. The white ceiling stares back at him mockingly. He mulls over the events of the recent days in his mind. He can't allow someone to wander the streets with his secret on the surface of their mind. After all the years of precision and care he's taken in the satisfaction of his desires, he can't get caught. Perfection is a must, failure is nonexistent. He forces himself to close his eyes, to allow peace to come. Peace doesn't come. His mind begins to flood with the desires. It fills itself with violent sexual satisfactions.

The beautiful Hispanic man from the nearby town with his perfect chest resting against the trunk of Paul's car moans with his pants around his ankles. He is completely exposed to Paul's fantasy fulfillment. He has no idea of what's to come. Paul's thick fingers wrap themselves around the man's throat and clench down for the strangulating kill. His hands reach back in retaliation. Paul squeezes harder and slams the man's face against the trunk. Hands grip the material of Paul's pants, pulling his knees forward. Paul slams his face downward again into the metal. Relaxation in death, the man's fists let loose of the material. Paul eases up on his throat and steps back. Suddenly, the man flips himself onto his back, body still resting against the rear of the car, eyes bloodshot and empty. He lurches in Paul's direction with his arms outstretched. His aim is for the throat. Paul resists. His arms are longer and his fingers reach the man's neck first. Even though his windpipe is being crushed, a smile spreads across his face. The nightmare quickly fades from Paul's mind. With an unexpected punch to the cheek and a kick to his balls, Paul's eyes fly open. Max's face is directly below his. Paul's body flies to the ground as he is removed by Max's legs. There is no easing to the floor. Paul lands with a thud and his side slams into the bureau one the wall parallel the bed. Max jumps from the bed, partly stepping on Paul's calf as he leaves the room. Paul hears the slamming of the bathroom door and the immediate click of the lock. Chelsea cowers in a corner closest the door and one of their small, upright dressers. Paul looks at her. She shakes a bit and runs from the room. He lies on the floor as tear begin welling up in his eyes. They drip onto the carpet. His hands hide his face out of self-pity and embarrassment, helplessness.

*20*

Paul's eyes fly open as the light from the sun dribbles in on him from the window. He jumps up from the carpet. Indentations on his face reside as he'd fallen asleep on his own hands.

"Max!" Paul shouts before being able to stop the thought from leaving his vocal cords. Flashes of the images of what had occurred hours prior send his mind into a panic. He quickly strides toward the bathroom. The door is open and the light is off. His mind is in a frustrated flurry. He checks the toothbrush holder. Max's toothbrush is gone. He opens cupboards and drawers. All of Max's products are missing. "Max?" Paul inquires once again without an answer. He knows that Max is gone yet continues to check the remaining parts of the house. Paul's final affirmation is the absence of Max's car in the garage. He knows it's his fault. _It's probably for the best. I could kill him eventually. I love him too much for that._ A police cruiser catches the corner of Paul's eye as it passes on the street. Paul goes to the dining room table and sits. A piece of paper sits lonely on the table. Paul reaches for it and begins to read.

Paul,

I can't do this anymore. It's gotten to the point where I'm honestly afraid of you. I still love you, but I can't. I'll call you when I can. I'm deeply sorry.

Love Always,

Max

p.s. Chelsea is with me

He lets the piece of paper to rest back on the tabletop. Now he has nothing. This sickness has taken everything from him. Tears drip down his cheeks. He wipes them with his hands. _It's over. Everything is gone._ Hopelessness and self-hatred overwhelm him. He slams his fists against the top of the table. It vibrates loudly against the floor and echoes off the walls. The room seems to get bigger and bigger. Paul feels small. _That's it then,_ he thinks to himself as he rises from the chair and walks toward the bathroom. He rifles through the medicine cabinet. Paul reads the labels carefully before making his selection, fills a glass of water, and goes into the bedroom. He pours several pills into his hand, pops them into his mouth, and chases them with a swig of water. Paul picks up a tablet from the dresser. He quickly retrieves a pen from a desk in the living room, returns to the bedroom, and begins to write. His hand moves frantically against the paper. _I have to make sure I get it all down before it's too late,_ he thinks as he scribbles. He manages to get everything recorded and the tablet strategically placed before the symptoms of overmedication take over. Dizziness fills his mind. A comforting numbness touches his nerves from head to toe. Clouds drift lazily over his eyes. Paul's eyelids slowly close. A face flickers above him. Vague memories of the man flood in but it's too late for serious recollection. The drugs consume his being and he drifts away.

A violent, cloudy haze inhibits Paul's vision. Bright lights invade his eyes from overhead. Strange sounds penetrate his eardrums. He vomits with force. His stomach churns angrily. Black liquid stains the white sheets beside his head. He hears a vague whisper between heaves, "Paul, this wasn't the answer." The voice brings back the face he'd seen before fading into his drug-induced sleep. Another upchucking steals his mind from the thought of the recollection of the face. The abdominal muscles contract violently, over and over. The black goop drips from his mouth. A nurse stares down at him.

"Get it all out," she says caringly as she rubs his back gently in a circular motion. The convulsions subside momentarily. He looks up at her for a moment. Tears roll down his face. Another vomit attack sets in. He reorients his face to the bio bucket. His eyes close as dry heaving continues. One final push from his gut and things seem to settle. Paul lays his head on his pillow and closes his eyes. _This can't be happening,_ he thinks. A wet cloth wipes across his chin. He doesn't acknowledge the nurse as she tends to him. _I was supposed to die. Now they'll know everything._ Paul's tears caused by excruciating stomach convulsions now turn to ones of frustration. He sobs quietly. "I'll be back in a couple minutes," the nurse announces. The sound of Velcro ripping fills the air. Paul feels a gentle tug on his arm and then a cold material against his skin. Echoes of sneakers on tile floor and then a door closes. A tickle brushes Paul's nose causing an itch. He tries to move his right arm in order to scratch. His arm only moves a couple of inches before stopping abruptly. He opens his tear-filled eyes and raises his head a bit. His arm is attached to the bedrail by a strap. He tries to bring up the other arm, also secured. His feet are immobilized too. He slams his head back into the pillow. _Now they'll know everything,_ he rethinks to himself as he lies in the hospital bed alone, not much different than he'd been a couple of hours ago. Max's warm, smiling face enters his mind. _I'm so sorry._ Paul apologizes to the nothingness in the room as the salty droplets continue to dribble effortlessly down his cheeks and onto his highly sanitized pillowcase.

*21*

Max groans as he lifts his head. As the haze clears from his eyes, he notices the shadows around him. His head aches like mad. He remembers nothing but a shadow flowing into his vision from behind as he went to place his bags into the car. A hard hit to the back of the head and darkness was all that remained in his memory bank. He was leaving Paul. He wasn't sure for how long, but he knew he had to leave. He feared for his life. He glances around the room. Shadows pour in slightly from the streetlights outside. He notices the outline of a sofa and a chair propped in the opposite corner of the room. A floor lamp stands dark between the two pieces of furniture. He tries to move his mouth but the stickiness of duct tape keeps it from parting. A muffled moan is all Max can produce. He looks down at his body. His shoulders ache from their awkward positioning behind the chair. They are tied as well as his ankles. A whimper enters his eardrums from nearby. His head quickly moves toward the sound. Her shadow approaches as Chelsea scampers across the wood floor. She stops in front of him and stares into the eyes of her master, helpless. Max strains against his bindings without success. He tries again. There is no give in the lines. Chelsea's ears perk up. Max hears what she does. There is a metallic click down the hallway in front of him. She goes to the door. Light pours in from the hall as the entryway is opened.

"Damn it," Max hears a male voice whisper as she scoots past him out the doorway. The light subsides as the door closes softly. A gentle click and flip of a deadbolt lock is all that sounds. Footsteps approach. They are heavy and solid. Max looks up at the man as he nears him. Light from the window catches a flash of metal, a badge. The man is tall but Max can't see his face. The exterior light stops mid shoulder. His face remains in darkness. Max realizes the man is wearing a police uniform. He strains to see the name tag, but it falls beyond the shadow as well.

"Are you feelin' alright, Max?" Travis speaks calmly. He knows there will be no answers but he's not really looking for them anyway. "It seems Paul's had a little accident due to you leaving him." A look of concern is expressed on Max's face. His eyebrow crinkles. "Don't worry, he'll be fine. It just means you're going to be stuck here waiting for a little while longer than I'd anticipated." Travis paces but ensures not to reveal his entire silhouette to his capture. "I just wanted to make sure you weren't dead. I'll be back to check on you later. Don't try anything stupid." The cop turns toward the door and walks away. The deadbolt turns, door opens, recloses, and is locked again. _What the hell doesn't he want with me,_ Max asks himself silent questions. _What did you do, Paul?_ The ache throbs inside his head as Max stretches his neck and tries to wriggle lose. It doesn't take long before he realizes there's no point. He sits in silent darkness, alone.

Detective Jake Brownlee closes his file cabinet and locks it. The telephone rings and he picks it up.

"Brownlee," he answers. He listens intently, "No shit?! I'll be right down." He hastily places the receiver back into its cradle, scoops up a tablet and pen, and darts for the front door. He jumps into his car and races toward the hospital. It only takes a few minutes for him to arrive but to him it seems like an eternity. He pulls into a parking spot nearest the entrance and rushes toward the door. He enters through the front of the hospital. Jake walks briskly toward the elevator and pushes the button multiple consecutive times with his index finger. "Come on," he says under his breath as he listens to the motor of the elevator. The sound of air escapes within. The arrival signal _bings_ and the doors open. He steps inside and pushes the up button again just as before. He also taps the button to close the doors to speed up the process. He arrives on the third floor, the doors reopen, and he steps out. He approaches the nurses' station and he asks for the room. A young nurse, looking fresh out of college, points him in the direction of Paul's room. He notices a sentry, a fellow officer, one of the street cops, standing outside the door. Jake walks toward him, opens the door, and goes inside, closing it behind himself. Paul is lying on the bed, staring out the window. His eyes meet the Detective as he rushes in. Paul's face is still damp with tears though the nurse has wiped it repeatedly throughout the evening. Jake stands beside the stranger's bed and looks down at him. The man's dark brown, nearly black eyes stare up at him, his lower lip quivers.

"I'm Detective Brownlee," Jake says as he steps closer to the bed. There is an awkward moment of silence that seems to last minutes.

"I'm so sorry," is how Paul begins the conversation. He's come to the realization that there's no way around it. It's time to fess up, if not for himself and his victims, for Max. More tears fill his eyes.

"What are you sorry for?" Detective Brownlee is waiting for a confession.

Paul sniffles, "I want to tell you, but I need to know something first." Brownlee looks down at him.

"I was under the impression that I was coming down here because you had something to tell me, Paul?"

"First I have to know that Max is alright. He left me last night and I need to know. I have to see him one last time."

"Who's Max, Paul?" Jake is frustrated but doesn't show it. At this point, as crazy as he's been making himself to solve the cases, he's willing to wait a few more hours.

"He's my husband," Paul blurts it out.

"Oh, I see," a certain level of familiarity and comfort comes over Jake. Most of the gays in Langley are private and still deeply closeted out of fear for discrimination. Hate crimes have not been a rare occurrence in the past. "Well, where do you suppose I start looking?"

"I don't know for sure. He didn't say anything. He just left."

"Why would he have left you, Paul?"

More tears. "Let's just say that I haven't been the best of partners."

"What did you do?"

"We'll get to that. Could you please find him and bring him here. Obviously I'm not going anywhere." Paul pulls against his restraints to reinforce his immobilized state.

"I'll see what I can find out." Jake is disappointed but willing to help even though he knows what Paul is going to confess to. He steps out of the hospital room and looks at the sentry outside the door. "Make sure he stays secured to that bed," he whispers into the policeman's ear. The man nods. Jake stops by the nurses' station and speaks to the same one who'd pointed out the requested hospital room earlier. "Under no circumstances are those restraints to be removed. Do you understand me?" Both of the nurses reply with a look of inquisition upon their faces. "He's dangerous and unofficially a prime suspect at the moment. That's all I can tell you right now." They both seem to comprehend his statements more and he feels comfort in the fact that they will listen. "Thank you," he says as he walks toward the elevator and leaves the way he came. He gets into his car and stops for a moment, thinking. He pulls out of the parking lot and goes back to the precinct.

*22*

Travis rifles through Jake's desk. He carefully moves things and places them back to where they were with precision.

"Where the hell does he keep them?" he whispers to himself. The office is abandoned, giving him the freedom to search for the crime scene pictures and supporting paperwork. He notices the file cabinet below the desk and pushes in on the latch. It doesn't move. "Shit," he says under his breath. He tries one more time to ensure he hadn't fumbled in the first attempt. His efforts are affirmed. He stops to think for a moment. It dawns on him. He goes to his desk on the other side of the building and returns as quickly as possible. He pulls the Gerber multi-tool from his pocket and flips the flat-head screwdriver attachment out. He slides the blade between the latch and the metal edging of the cabinet and pushes sideways. The screwdriver pops out from beneath the lip. He nearly catches himself in the pant leg. Travis reinserts the tool and tries again. This time the edge bends, freeing the latch. He folds the attachment neatly within the tool. It rubs against its casing on its way in, bent with the force. He puts the Gerber in his pocket, slides the drawer open, and flips through the hanging files. His fingers move files forward in their hangers as his eyes eliminate the contenders. He then sees a section marked with a question mark. The fluorescent ceiling lights suddenly flicker on above. _Shit,_ he says internally. He reaches in with both hands, grabbing every file contained beyond the question marked file. There are seven to ten folders in all. He hears the hard soles of footsteps nearing his position. He slides the file cabinet shut quietly and ducks down as he goes toward the back door of the precinct.

Jake hears the footsteps as they fade toward the back of the building; they bounce off the walls. "Hello?" he calls as if his ears are playing tricks on him. The sound of metal clinks as Travis pushes in on the handle on the back door located at the rear of the building. Jake catches a glimpse of the back of his head as he darts out the door. A loud bang sounds within the room as it shuts and the door latches. _What the hell was he doing in here so late?_ Jake shrugs his shoulders. He'd known Travis as being odd in the past, that's why they'd stopped seeing each other in the first place. He walks over to his desk and logs on to his computer. He searches for Paul's address in the database. It isn't until he retrieves a small notebook from the top drawer of his desk that he notices the dent in his file cabinet. His heart jumps in his chest. He reaches down and pulls the cabinet open with little effort. He looks through his files. "Son of a bitch!" he yells. He quickly writes down the address and rips the front sheet from the notebook. He runs to the back of the room. Opening the back door, he looks outside to see if there's any sign of Travis. The alleyway is empty. He kicks the side of the wall out of frustration. A shooting pain swells up in his foot and jolts up his leg. Realizing the hasty mistake he'd made, Jake stops for a moment, resting his head atop his forearm against the brick wall. His mind races a thousand miles a minute. _What the hell could he possibly want with those case files?! Where is he going?! What's going on?!_ "Shit! Shit! Shit!" His own voice echoes inside his head as he yells.

Travis drives down the road carefully as to not get pulled over. He glances at the files on the passenger seat. A grin decorates his face. He knows his career is over but he doesn't care. It won't be long before he has what he wants and if anyone stands in his way he'll take care of them. He continues along his way until reaching the apartment building where he's keeping Max. He pulls into a parking garage across the street, gathers the files, and crosses toward the building. He climbs the stairs, opens the door, and sets the folders on a table near the entrance. There's a thump in the living room. Travis looks around the corner. Max is lying on his side on the floor, still attached to the chair.

"I told you to behave yourself, Max," Travis reaches down and sets the chair back onto its legs with little effort. "You're not going to get out of this that easily. Besides, I've got something to show you." Travis goes to the folders and transfers them to the kitchen counter where he can keep an eye on Max via his peripheral vision. He sorts through the pile, removing the pictures of each of Paul's victims contained within. He neatly orders them from earliest to most recent; Theresa's picture is second from the bottom of the pile. He holds them upright and smacks them against the countertop to even them out like a deck of cards before a deal. With a smile on his face, he flips the light on in the living room and goes over to Max. "I've got a little surprise for you, Maxi," he says as he looks down at the picture on top. "Your man isn't what he appears to be." He flashes the first face in front of Max's eyes. Max looks at it for a moment and then looks up at Travis with wonderment on his face. The picture is one of a young man dressed in business casual attire. There is nothing abnormal about the picture or gruesome. "Let me tell you a little story. Paul strangled this one after letting the guy suck him off." Max's facial expression changes a bit. He still doesn't know what's going on. Everything is coming at him so quickly. "All of these," Travis begins flipping through the stack like a flip book, "he killed them." Max recalls the occasions when Paul choked him in his sleep. He doesn't know what to think. _Could Paul really have killed people?_ A realization comes to him. A lump forms in his throat as a tear moistens his inner eyelid. _He could've._ "As a matter of fact," Travis continues speaking, "this very apartment is where most of them died. It seems you don't know Paul very well huh?" He laughs. The destruction of Paul's relationship seems to Travis as a conquest. It's what Travis has been waiting for. All those hours spent watching, waiting, secretly loving. The time it's taken for him to get the love of his life back. The dream of having Paul in his arms once again, everything is coming together. It's not quite the way he'd planned but it'll do. Madness, delirium, and delusion set into Travis' mind, everything in his life is gone, but everything is going to be, somehow. Paul will soon be his again, madness.

Travis goes back into the kitchen and places the photographs atop the manila folders. He steps over to the sink and squats down. After opening the bottom cupboard, he begins rifling through its contents. Assorted cleaning supplies line the bottom of the cupboard. Travis looks at each one, knowing what will work for what he's trying to accomplish. He grabs four different chemical bottles from the cabinet and walks into the bathroom down the hall. He flips the lever on the bathtub, corking the drain, and begins to dump the jugs entire contents within. He tosses the empty bottles atop the liquid. They land with a hallow thump. Travis goes to the living room to retrieve Max. He tips the chair forward and slides a small runner rug beneath the back legs. Travis pulls Max to the bathroom. The chemicals poisons are already forming a toxic cloud. He pushes the chair against the wall. Travis' eyes begin to burn and his lungs do as well. "Sorry, Max, you're the second-to-last person standing between Paul and I," he slaps Max on the upper thighs in a congratulatory fashion, smiles, and walks out the door. Travis closes the bathroom door and shoves a rug into the crack near the floor, sealing the noxious fumes within. He flips off the lights and walks out of the apartment. His lungs burn slightly, making it a little irritating to breathe. Travis starts up his car and drives off.

Jake runs down the hallway to Paul's hospital room, shushing the officer guarding the door with an upturned hand motioning _no time to talk._ He enters the room. Paul lies silently in his bed, looking out the window at the moon. Dried tears mark the corners of his eyes to the damp pillowcase beneath his head. He doesn't turn to greet the person entering his room, assuming it's a nurse in to check his vitals yet again.

"We have a problem," Detective Brownlee wastes no time with conversation. Paul's eyes widen.

"Did you find him? Did you find Max?" He turns his head toward Jake as he inquires the whereabouts of his partner.

"No, I need to know where you think he might be," a stern look dresses Jake's face. He suspects Paul knows more than he's letting on. "I think there may be another person involved. I don't think Max simply left you."

Paul's eyes roll a bit away from Detective Brownlee's intense eye contact. "He left a note. I know his handwriting."

"Call it a hunch, I think he _meant_ to leave you, but he didn't end up going on his own. I think somebody else is involved."

"Why would you even say that? Max doesn't have any enemies. There isn't a person in this world who'd want to harm Max."

"Not even to get to you?" Jake quickly stops Paul's inquisitions. Paul hadn't thought about that possibility, the dead body randomly showing up in his apartment. The Detective apparently knows more than he's letting on.

"What makes you think that, Detective?"

Jake pauses for a moment. He quickly realizes that nothing he says is going to change this man's current position. "While I was back at the precinct, someone stole my some of my files just as I walked inside," he decides to divulge some of the information but not all. "He went out the back door before I realized what was going on."

Paul knows the answer to Jake's question. He knows where Max might be, if the Detective is right about his gut feeling. "I have an apartment downtown..." Paul explains its location to Jake.

*23*

Travis watches from outside the hospital. He knows it won't be long before Jake figures out what's going on because Paul's gone soft. He keeps an eye out from a safe distance in the shadows. It isn't long before things happen exactly as he predicted. Jake leaves the front of the hospital and goes to his unmarked police car. By the hurried pattern of Jake's footsteps, Travis knows information has been shared. _Hopefully the chemical cocktail has done its magic before Jake gets there_ , he thinks as he steps out from the darkness. He crosses the street and enters the hospital. Travis maintains his composure to ensure no suspicion. He arrives on Paul's floor and walks toward his room. The sentinel at the door greets him.

"Hey, Trav, what are you doing here?"

"It's time for my shift," Travis answers slyly. "I'm getting a little bored with my usual routine, so I volunteered."

"Sounds good to me," the officer answers, "Detective Brownlee was just here a few minutes ago. He should be back soon. He didn't say much to me. He's kind of a dick sometimes."

"Have a good night, Mike," Travis taps him on the shoulder, shutting the conversation down and sending his colleague on his way. He assumes the position at the front door with arms crossed in front of his chest and he waves Mike off with a nod of his head. He watches as he gets into the elevator and the doors close. Travis only waits a few seconds before stepping away from the doorway. He checks the nurses' station. Satisfied, he goes into Paul's room. Paul has resumed his position of staring out the window as the moon shines in on him.

"It's time to go, Paul," he jumps as the loud, manly voice invades his eardrums. He looks toward his visitor, another cop. The man approaches his bed and begins to undo his restraints. Each of the clasps removed quickly. The cop then goes to the closet and retrieves Paul's clothes, throwing them into his lap. "Get up. It's time to go," the policeman's words turn into demands. Paul swings his legs to the floor and positions his pant legs for entry. The policeman's identity seems vaguely familiar to him, but he can't place the face. He doesn't question. Now's not the right time. Freedom sounds better than his current situation. Paul gets all his clothing on and slips into his shoes.

Jake pulls his pistol from his concealed holster beneath his jacket as he walks up the stairwell to the apartment complex. After buzzing the on-site manager to allow him access, he dismissed the old man so he could continue on alone. A simple flash of his badge was all that the elderly gentleman needed before quickly obeying the Detective's orders. Jake quietly pads his way up the stairwell in the direction of the apartment as directed by Paul. He sees the apartment number and approaches. He knocks on the door and listens for anyone moving around inside. There is silence. He knocks again, a little more loudly the second time, still nothing from within. _Fuck this,_ he says to himself. He positions himself squarely in front of the door and kicks it hard. The wooden door frame breaks free from the wall as pieces fly inward. The smell hits Jake's nostrils. He immediately pulls his t-shirt up over his mouth. His eyes and nose burns as he pushes his way into the apartment. _There is no way there is anyone alive in here,_ he thinks as he darts toward the nearest visible window on the other side of the living room. He quickly wrenches it open. A gust of cool wind pours inside, pushing the violent odor away. Jake takes a deep breath and continues to search the apartment, keeping his shirt over his nostrils and his pistol at the ready.

He clears the kitchen and looks down the hallway. A rug pokes out from beneath a door. A red flag automatically rises in his brain. He dashes to the door and opens it, gun leading the way. A motionless body slumps in a wooden chair before him. The burn of the chemical compound within the room is nauseating. Jake runs to the window and pushes it open, fresh air once again. The cross-breeze between the two open windows thins the hazardous air almost right away. Jake turns to the body. He knows who the man is without having to check his identification. Saliva drips from Max's mouth onto his pant leg. There is a wet spot on his left thigh. Jake removes the bindings and pulls Max from the room into the hall outside of the apartment. He lays his lifeless body on the floor and begins CPR.

"Where are we going?" Paul finally asks a question as they sit in the front seat of Travis' car and he starts the engine.

"I'm saving your life," Travis makes no eye contact with the man he's so desperately been yearning for all of these years. He pulls away from the curb and begins driving.

"Why would you do that? You're a cop. You do know what'll happen to you for helping me, right?" Paul presents the obvious questions though he knows the man must know the consequences of his actions.

Travis turns a corner. "Don't you remember me, Paul?" he glances quickly toward him. "I've spent every waking moment waiting for the time when we could be back together and you don't remember me?" Frustration dances on Travis' words as he delivers them, along with madness. Paul tries harder to put the face into memory. He recalls the voice and then a washing of the past falls over his thoughts. A young boy in an open field, soft touches, long talks, he remembers.

"Travis," Paul asks as the reality of a past long since forgotten, not forgotten, but left to its rightful place comes back to him. The times of motherly beatings and molestation flood back entirely. It was the beginning of Paul's good/bad feelings. "Where's Max, Travis?" Paul cannot help himself from asking. All of the pieces come together suddenly and the words fall from his lips. Travis ignores the question and continues to make his way down the street. "Travis, I asked you a question," Paul's words contain anger and demand. Travis means nothing to him. Travis stayed with the past and that's where he belonged.

"How about this, Paul, how about I show you where Max is? I'll show you and then we can go." Travis' words seem empty and emotionless. He maintains his distance. He knows there will be no Paul and Travis until there is no longer a Paul and Max. Travis turns the car around and begins heading in the direction of his victim. Anger and fear of what's happened to Max wells up inside Paul's mind.

Jake blows air into Max's lungs and pumps his chest. The telephone call to 911 is still in progress, but the operator waits patiently on the other end as Jake tries to bring a life back. Two minutes has seemed like an eternity. Jake has no idea how long Max had been exposed to the noxious fumes in that bathroom. He focuses on the daunting task at hand. His lips cover Max's cold lips. He pushes air from his lungs into Max's. A sudden forced resistance of air pushes back into Jake's mouth. He immediately pulls away. Max begins to cough, Jake turns him on his side, and Max vomits.

The two men get out of the vehicle and approach the building. An ambulance siren sounds in the distance.

"I think you're familiar with this apartment complex?" Travis asks Paul in a rhetorical fashion.

"You son of a bitch," Paul says in a controlled whisper as to not raise attention to the streets, "what did you do?" Travis reaches into his pocket, pulls out a key, and tosses it to Paul. Recognizing it immediately, Paul runs to the front door with Travis not far behind. Travis catches the door before it closes as Paul runs up the stairs.

Jake carries Max to the sofa inside the apartment. He sits him up. The fumes have almost completely dissipated.

"There's an ambulance on the way," Jake says softly to Max, "I'll get you some water." Max nods his head as Jake goes to the kitchen and returns. Thumping of loud footsteps enter the apartment. Jake hands Max the glass of water and he takes it. Max's eyes go toward the doorway. Jake notices and turns toward the sound of footsteps. Paul is standing in front of the open door. A second set of feet sound within the stairwell behind Paul. Jake looks at Paul as he stares at Max, Travis approaches from behind.

I look in at the Detective and my husband. The lingering scent of chemical tickles my nose, not in a good way. I take a moment to look into my husband's eyes. There is nothing there but fear. His eyes are bloodshot and ruined, ruined by me. I am wicked and will never be forgiven. _He_ did this to us! _He_ destroyed us! _He needs to die!_ There is no going back. There is nowhere to go. I give Max a look of longing and regret. I turn to face Travis. I used to love him, I used to miss him, and now I hate him. I look into his eyes, nothing. I measure the distance with my eyes as my body tenses. I reach for his throat before he has a chance to react. I squeeze as hard as I can as we fall backward toward the stairwell. His body cushions the initial impact as we hit the steps. I feel the snapping of bone in his neck. My fingers touch the metal-edged stairs at the base of his neck. I leave his body behind and everything goes black.

*24*

Days go by as the pieces begin to come together. The cases which had been unsolved are no longer riddles to Detective Brownlee's mind. Max packed up Paul's things and, as he was removing clothing from the dresser, he found the letter he'd written just before attempting suicide.

Dearest Max,

If you're reading this, I'm dead. I couldn't go on without you. I couldn't continue to hurt you. You deserve better than me. I love you.

I have a confession to make. I'm a murderer. I've killed many people. I'd like to simply place the blame on my childhood, but that would be a copout and I refuse to do that. There's a lot you didn't know about me. I didn't tell you because I love you and couldn't bear to see the look on your face when you discovered our sham of a marriage. I was abused, molested, and I murdered, even as a boy, I killed people.

Please remember me as the man you knew before everything went wrong. Please remember me as the man who'd do anything and everything for you. I'd die for you. I love you with all of my heart. Please forgive me.

Love,

Paul

Max tried to remember Paul for the man he knew and he did give his life for him. Paul's funeral was a quiet gathering. Only a few friends showed up. After learning that the man they'd known was a serial killer, they couldn't bring themselves to be seen at such an event.

As the rain fell from the sky, gentle tears fall from Max's eyes. The noise of the droplets against the canvas cover doesn't shake the fact that everyone is secretly staring at him. Max's eyes wander around the faces. A tall detective with auburn hair and gentle green eyes maintains eye contact as the others' glances quickly dart away when noticed. A warm feeling enters Max's heart. A void slowly fills his soul as the rain patters against the canvas cover above him on the dreary cemetery grounds.

About the Author

R.J. Hamilton grew up in Detroit Lakes, Minnesota, served in the United States Army for 12 years, and now lives in Topeka, Kansas.

He is currently attending Washburn University in Topeka to obtain his Bachelor's Degree in English with an emphasis in creative writing.

R.J. Hamilton is the author of 6 other books, _Self Convictions, Self Consciousness, Self Conclusions, Self Consequences, And the Hand of God_ & _Dark Solo (Dark Solo_ was written with Michael Rohr) _._

