Pulse

3

New York, the present

Macy Collins jerked awake. Unable to breathe in, to breathe out. That was because a rectangle of gray duct tape was fixed tightly across her mouth. The man straddling her had her nose pinched between his thumb and forefinger.

She panicked, screaming almost silently, thrashing her legs about so she could feel her heels digging into the grass and hard earth. He was seated on her chest, leaning forward so his weight was over her upper body and his legs kept her arms pinned to her sides. The heavy hardness of his knees had made her arms go numb.

He smiled down at her, then released her nose so she could suck in precious oxygen.

Her head cleared and she suddenly remembered everything and wished she was still unconscious, that she could die. She craned her neck and stared down at the red, raw flesh where her right breast had been, then up into his eyes that were as human as black pearls. When she looked away she noticed that he had an erection. Even after last night

…

He was so charming. Then he must have slipped something into her drink. Something that made her compliant enough to agree to a walk in Central Park at dusk.

It was well past dusk now, but there was a bright moon in a black sky beyond the shadows of the copse of trees where he had lured her. She would be able to see everything she so feared and dreaded.

He held up a boning knife with a long, lean blade streaked with blood. “I thought you’d want to be conscious for this,” he said. “The first one was so much fun.”

Macy began thrashing again with her legs as he slowly and deliberately lowered the knife toward her remaining breast. The fear, the pain, sickened her, made her feel faint. She felt herself sliding again into a fearful darkness, yet she welcomed the black void as an escape from this horror. And she might escape from it, because it couldn’t be real. It couldn’t actually be happening.

Or if it was happening, it was to someone else. In another world, not hers. A world she was dreaming…

None of this is real. Not the pain. Not the fear.

She was drifting, falling…

He pinched her nose again. Her stopped breath caught in her throat and she was fully conscious again, fully aware.

Again.

It was real.

He was real.

The knife was real.

Later, when he was almost finished with her, he removed his pants all the way. He’d previously only unzipped them. He was wearing pale blue panties, which he quickly removed, pausing only to appreciate their silky softness.

He found the victim’s black thong that he’d earlier taken off and tossed to the side, and slipped it on. He then carefully lifted her legs and put the blue panties on her. She wasn’t quite dead, and unconsciously helped him by bending her knees or pointing her toes.

He then put his pants back on, and on top of them baggier, triple-pleated pants he’d brought in his attache case. They were a harsher material, not pleasant to the touch.

Keeping away from the blood, he knelt next to her and whispered, “Are you still here?”

But she didn’t hear him. She was in deep shock and on her way to death. He watched her avidly. Watched her eyes.

Are you still here?

When the moment arrived, he was ready.

The last thing he did before leaving was unfold a page from the morning paper and rest it crease-up over her face, like a tent. It was a Macy’s department store sale ad proclaiming

EVERYTHING S LASHED.

Nobody, he thought, had a sense of humor like God.