Stone tilted the autopsy table and locked it in place. Everything was in
order.
His latest victim struggled against her
restraints. "You don't have to do this," she cried. He loved how her
voice wavered in her throat. Such a pretty throat.
"But I do,” Stone said. “I need your
blood. I'm creating new colors for my latest masterpiece."
"I'll give you my blood." Her
voice showed her growing panic.
"I know, sweetheart, I know."
Stone smoothed the hair back from her face. "So lovely of you to
offer," His phone alarmed. "Sorry, time's running short. So I'll just
take what I want." He stuffed a hand towel into her gaping mouth and made
his first cut. Then a second. Then a third and fourth. He was mesmerized by the
colored tracks flowing down her arms and legs. He watched the tears streaming
from her eyes and laughed. A pity tears were colorless.
Stone checked his watch. He hated being on
a deadline. He raised his scalpel; saw its reflection in the pupil of her
terror filled eyes. Her fear fed his ego. With no regret, he slit her throat
in one smooth action. The blood spurted. "Damn it, that's what I get for
rushing."
Despite the mess, his gaze never wavered.
Her lifeblood gushed, her body slackened, and the light left her eyes as the
crimson fluid flowed into the bucket under the table. Death took her in His
arms.
The moment was captured in staccato clicks
as Stone's trusty Nikon went through its paces.
*****
Stone added a cup of formaldehyde to the
viscous mixture and stirred it vigorously. He dipped his brush into its
freshness and began painting. Swirls, splattered droplets, and elongated drips
soon filled the twelve by fourteen canvas. Joy rose up from his deepest being
and a sense of satisfaction overwhelmed him. This creation would be his best.
He was sure that with the addition of formaldehyde, the color wouldn't turn
brown. The crimson he loved would be the
star of his masterpiece, the hue that would leave art lovers and critics
breathless.
*****
The morning was cold and Stone knew it
would only get colder. He hated winter, dreaded the darkness, the extra thick
clothing, the icy streets and biting winds. Stone loathed Alaska. He yearned
for West Virginia, but his mother wouldn't hear of moving. She put her
prestigious job, her friends, and the home she adored before her only son. She
wasn't leaving, and without her support neither was he.
He grunted when he threw the body over his
shoulder. "Damn, the dead weigh a ton," he moaned. Placing it on the
bed of the truck, he slammed the tailgate. The sound pleased him, echoing as it
did in the stillness.
The tide was out and the sound of waves -
distant. He'd made sure the park was empty, and after cruising the streets for
half an hour, he was certain the area was cop free. His police radio scanner
told him all he needed to know—they were busy working a hit and run near
Merrill Field. He grabbed his flashlight, but he knew the way to the dumpsite.
He'd reconnoitered a week ago.
He placed her corpse carefully under the
pine tree, covering her lower half with a garbage bag. He tucked it neatly
under her legs so it wouldn't blow away, but showed just enough of her cute
crena to entice. He placed her arms alongside her head, as though she were
relaxing on the sand for the perfect tan. Her manicured fingers were placed
just so and her head, he turned to the left then brushed her newly bleached
hair neatly over her back. She looked like a sleeping doll. He took several
pictures for his scrapbook. He didn't want to leave her. He popped a piece of
spearmint gum while he admired his handiwork.
Damn, I'm good.
He kneeled to caress her pure white skin,
but a light on the road above the park startled him. Gathering his materials,
he picked up a branch and with his makeshift broom, he cleared the area of any
footprints. He left the way he'd entered.
When he arrived home at 7:00 AM, his
mother was getting ready to leave for work.
"Hey Mom, told you I'd make it back
before you left." Dropping his duffel bag and carefully wrapped canvas, he
kissed her on the forehead.
"Two minutes more and you wouldn't
have. You know I value punctuality." She cringed when he removed his
jacket. "Where have you been? At a slaughterhouse?"
"Oh, sorry. Joey and I cleaned the
moose he shot. I would have changed, but didn't take an extra shirt."
"Well, get that off and into the
washer now! Cold rinse should get it out. Let it soak. Those jeans too. I might
not be able to see blood but if it's on that shirt, it's on those jeans."
She kept chatting away while Stone
stripped in the laundry room off the kitchen. Unashamed of being naked in front
of his mother, he walked her to the door, dropping a big kiss on her cheek.
“Have a good day, Mommy,” he cooed.
She returned the kiss, smiling the rare
smile she kept for him alone. “You’re a good boy, Stowy. You’ll always be Mommy’s good boy.”
He watched as she drove away, then grabbed
his backpack and unique canvas. He hurried to the basement, his
domain. In a secret room off his bedroom, he found the perfect spot on the wall
for his latest masterpiece. Taking a container from his backpack, he covered
his entire body with her blood. Stone pleasured himself twice, to the image of
her final moment, before falling asleep wrapped in bear fur.
