Single White Psychopath Seeks Same

Chapter 9

“AH, SMELL that fresh air,” said Daniel, beating on his chest and breathing deeply. “That’s the first thing that’s gotta go.”

We were in Alaska. According to Daniel, we were about thirty miles out of Fairbanks, not that I would have known any different. Local temperature was ten below zero, just super for a thin-blooded Florida guy. It was two in the afternoon, but Daniel told me that darkness would be falling very shortly.

We’d landed at another small runway, almost identical to the other one. Then we’d divided into two vans, one with Foster and the prisoners, and one with the evildoers and myself. A long drive through some treacherous, virtually non-existent, roads later, we arrived at our destination.

The centerpiece was a huge mansion. Patricia’s place was undeniably large, but this was one serious mansion. It was two stories, and almost as big as the Chamber Mall. “Forty-eight bedrooms,” said Daniel, as the iron gates swung open.

Behind the mansion was an immense metal structure, which from the outside sort of looked like an airplane hangar. A twenty-foot-high iron fence surrounded the entire area. A couple of dead birds lying in the snow next to it made me believe that it was electrified.

The gates closed behind us. Foster’s van veered to the right, and a sliding door opened at the entrance to the metal structure. As Foster backed the van into the structure, Daniel drove us right up to the front doors of the mansion and shut off the engine.

“Home, sweet, home!” he announced. We all got out, and then he made the comment about the fresh air and how it was the first thing that needed to go. Nobody laughed. I think they’d all heard it before.

“Nice place,” I said. “So what exactly is your day job, anyway?”

“I’m in the inheritance business.”

“Ah. Good work if you can get it.”

“No kidding.”

Daniel entered a code into a keypad next to the door, and there was a loud click. He swung the double-doors open and gestured grandly. “Welcome to my humble abode! Please wipe your feet before you enter.”

We walked inside. The foyer was enormous and elegantly decorated. There was a red-carpeted staircase leading upstairs that sort of looked like the one Clark Gable carried Vivian Leigh up in Gone With the Wind. There was a golden chandelier that sort of looked like the one in the Walt Disney version of Beauty and the Beast, though in real life and not animation. The whole place was overall very, very, very impressive.

“Wow,” I said, indicating that I was impressed.

“I’ll take you to your room,” Daniel told me. “We’ll eat dinner in about an hour, if that’s okay.”

“Sounds great.”

Daniel led me upstairs and down a long, red-carpeted corridor. The walls were covered with a light gold-colored wallpaper. The doors were spaced about thirty-feet apart, so I assumed there was plenty of closet space.

“Do you get a lot of visitors?” I asked.

“Oh, sure. Not like you, of course. Most of my visitors are of the non-homicidal variety. That’s why I’ve gotta keep things reasonably tasteful, at least in the mansion. But you get the special guest room.”

We stopped at a door that looked much like the others. Daniel tapped it. “That’s mahogany,” he said, proudly. He swiped a yellow plastic card through a reader next to the door, and then swung it open. I stepped inside the room.

There were dead bodies everywhere.

It was the tackiest decorating scheme I’d ever seen.

Every square inch of wall space was covered with pictures of corpses. Corpses in very bad shape. Some of the pictures were black-and-white newspaper clippings, while others were full-color and poster-sized. One of them looked like it was in 3-D. The four-poster bed had several fake heads resting on the pillows.

“Whaddya think?” Daniel asked.

“It’s…it’s nice.”

Daniel patted me on the shoulder. “I know it’s a bit much, but you’re a virgin to this place and you’ve gotta get the whole treatment. Don’t worry; we’ll move you to another room tomorrow. Go ahead and take a shower, enjoy the Jacuzzi, whatever you want. There are bathrobes in the closet, but I’ll bring you some clothes right before we head down for an early dinner. Is there anything else you need?”

“A vomit bag?”

“You’ll be interesting to have around,” said Daniel. Then his expression turned serious. “Now, I don’t want you to take offense to this, okay?”

“Okay.”

“You’re new here, we only know each other through letters, so you’ll understand if I have to take some precautions, right?”

I nodded. “Absolutely. It takes time to feel you can trust a homicidal maniac.”

“Great. So don’t freak out when I lock you in here, all right?”

“Not a problem. I understand completely.”

“To make more bubbles, just turn the black knob to the right. Sometimes it sticks a bit, but you’ll figure it out. See you in an hour.”

Daniel left the room, shutting the door behind him. A soft click proved that I was now a prisoner, too.

WHEN I was little, my dad used to say, “Son, guilt doesn’t make a very fluffy pillow.” It was not a statement that will ever make it into any of those best-selling books of quotes, but that didn’t stop him from saying it on a regular basis. My mom would occasionally try to intervene, insisting that it was only confusing me, but my dad would explain that he was trying to teach me a lesson. It didn’t really work.

The only long-lasting effect of his lesson is that, in times such as these, when I was wracked with guilt, I’ll often think to myself “You know, Andrew, guilt doesn’t make a very fluffy pillow.” It’s annoying as hell. I’m terrified that someday Kyle will misbehave and I’ll say it to him before I realize what unholiness I’ve unleashed.

So, anyway, I had that stupid quote running through my mind while I turned on the water in the Jacuzzi. I had no intention of actually relaxing in it, but I hoped the noise of the whirlpool would cover the sound of me poking around, as well as convince anyone who happened to be listening that I was perfectly relaxed in my demented environment.

I did, however, take a hot shower. I felt guilty while I did it, since Roger no doubt was not currently enjoying a cascade of soothing water, but I couldn’t exactly go downstairs to dinner reeking of nervous sweat.

After I was done, I turned on the whirlpool, took one of four white bathrobes from the closet, and then began to search the room, hoping to find either a weapon or an escape route.

I eliminated the escape route idea fairly quickly. No secret doors under the bed, under the rug, or in the closet. At least no obvious secret doors. I could possibly kick a hole through the wall, given sufficient time and better shoes, but I wasn’t going to pursue that option quite yet.

Next I searched for weapons, something that could be easily concealed. The bedroom was a dead end. Some of the corpse posters looked like excellent paper cut material, and perhaps I could smother somebody with one of the fluffy pillows, but I needed something more substantial.

There was a shaving razor in the bathroom, but unfortunately it was electric. The best I could come up with was a pair of fingernail clippers. I slipped them into the pocket of the bathrobe. You never know.

In an emergency, I could break the mirror on the medicine cabinet and use the shards of glass, but beyond that I seemed to be pretty much stuck with the fingernail clippers.

I continued to search, and jumped when there was a knock at the door half an hour later. I waited as long as it would have taken me to get out of the Jacuzzi and towel off, and then went over to the door.

“Yeah?”

“It’s Foster. I’ve got your clothes.”

The lock clicked, and then Foster opened the door, holding some neatly folded clothes.

“Great, thanks,” I said.

“No problem. Too bad yours got stolen.”

“Yeah, well, things happen.”

“Uh-huh. By the way, I don’t believe for one second that you are who you say you are, and it will be my great pleasure to gouge your eyes out very soon. Then I’m going to rip out your throat and make you eat it.”

“But you’ll spare my nose, won’t you?”

“Just keep thinking this is funny,” said Foster. “Pretty soon it won’t be.”

He thrust the clothes at me, and then shut the door.

“What a prick,” I said to the shirt.

I got dressed in the designer jeans and green polo shirt Foster had so thoughtfully provided. I transferred the handy fingernail clippers to my jeans pocket. I’d just tucked in my shirt when Daniel arrived to escort me to dinner.

“SO, ANDREW,” began Mortimer, stuffing a bite of prime rib in his mouth, “what’s the story? I’m talking about the whole Headhunter thing? Daniel explained part of it, but I’m still confused.”

I shrugged. “Not much to tell. Have you read my book?”

“Yeah, actually.”

“Lies. From beginning to end.”

“You don’t say.” Mortimer thought about that for a moment. “So you actually worked for Ghoulish Delights?”

“That’s right. They tried to rip me off, and I have it on good authority that they regretted it.”

Daniel chuckled. “Excellent lobster, honey,” he said to Josie. “You’ve outdone yourself again.”

“Just call me Mrs. Domestic.”

“And while you were with Ghoulish Delights, you were also going around killing people as the Headhunter?” asked Mortimer.

“That’s right.”

“Busy son of a bitch,” muttered Foster.

“Idle hands do the devil’s work.”

“So, you’re part of Ghoulish Delights, and you’re the Headhunter,” said Mortimer. “You’ve got this fantastic cover story that you’re Andrew Mayhem, the family man who stopped a bunch of sadistic killers and their fans. Why would you tell anyone your secret?”

Thomas had posed that same question to the Headhunter. “Because,” I said, taking a sip of my red wine, “Daniel here promised me one hell of a party.”

“And you’ll get it,” said Daniel.

“Besides, who’d believe it?” I asked. “I’ll just tell the press that you wackos kidnapped me.” I laughed in what I hoped was a convincing manner.

“What about Roger? I thought you two were best friends from childhood.”

I took a much larger sip of the wine. “We were.”

“Then what happened?”

“Things changed.”

“No kidding. They must’ve changed quite a bit for you to bring him here. What did he do?”

“Let’s just say that when I came home early one day, I decided to be a little more creative than running for the shotgun.”

Mortimer nodded his understanding. “Gotcha.”

“Lost three wives that way,” said Stan, not looking up from his dinner. Daniel had forbade him from smoking at the dinner table, but an unlit cigarette stuck out of the corner of his mouth as he chewed his steak.

“So when do I find out the big surprise?” I asked. “There’s only so much suspense one guy can take, you know.”

“Then we’ll get right into the overview,” said Daniel. “You’ve probably guessed that all of us sitting here at this table are…well, we’re sickos. Just like you. Without trying to get into the psychological explanations and theories about our mothers and all that crap, it’s safe to say that we very much enjoy torture and murder. We like the suffering, we like the pain, we like the whole visual spectacle. Simply put, we’re a bunch of freaks.”

“Here, here,” said Josie, raising her wine glass.

“The thing is, it’s not the most convenient hobby to enjoy. The dangers are incredible. Even a sniper puts himself at risk, but we want the up close and personal element. We don’t want it over quickly. We want them to know what’s happening, and what’s going to happen. Sometimes we even love to rub the family’s face in it…not literally, though that would be fun, too.”

Just keep smiling, I told myself. You like what he’s saying… you like what he’s saying… you like what he’s saying… at least don’t puke on the lobster…

“Anyway,” Daniel continued, “I am, if you haven’t already guessed, extremely rich. I did not murder my father to get my inheritance, I earned it the good old-fashioned way: lung cancer. So I had this wonderful house built. Like it?”

I nodded. “It’s roomy.”

“That it is. It’s tastefully decorated, except for your room, of course, and quite frankly the type of place you’d feel perfectly comfortable using to entertain royalty. But I assume you noticed the other building?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s are where the fun begins. I have created what I like to call the Psychopath’s Paradise. ‘Psychopath’ may not be the most accurate word, if you really get into the medical definitions, but it works well enough. A place where people like myself, and Josie, and Foster, and Stan, and Mortimer, and Andrew Mayhem the Headhunter can have themselves the most outrageously entertaining kill-fest imaginable, without worrying about all those annoying interruptions like family members walking in, or cops showing up, or having to constantly say ‘Scream and you’re dead! Scream and you’re dead!’ Let me tell you, Andrew, you’re in for a treat.”

Thirty years of pretending to love that disgusting, slimy fudge my Aunt Patty makes every year at Christmas wasn’t nearly enough practice for the feigned delight I had to show at this moment.

“Sounds fuckin’ awesome!” I said, hoping gratuitous profanity would make my joy more believable.

“So, anyway, every year we’re each responsible for bringing three victims, though Josie and I will usually snag some bonus prey. Those like myself, who capture them early, get the extra enjoyment of inflicting mental torture upon their families. Then there are losers like Stan, who wait until the last minute and nearly get themselves shot.”

Stan hadn’t been paying attention. He looked up at the sound of his name, shrugged, and returned to his dinner.

“And you invite a special guest each year?” I asked.

Daniel shook his head. “You’re the first. So we have lots of special surprises for you, my friend. In fact, let’s all finish up our meal so we can move on to the first.”

I had absolutely no interest in finishing my meal. “What are we doing first?”

“What else, new guy? Initiation.”

THIS CONTINUES the sad, sad tale of Roger Tanglen. They still haven’t taken away my tape recorder, not that I offered it to anyone, so I guess I’ll just keep talking until they take it away, or they kill me, or my fellow prisoners tell me to shut the hell up before they beat me senseless.

“Shut the hell up before we beat you senseless!”

That was Rodney, my cellmate. As you can hear, we haven’t completely lost our sense of humor yet. Which is good, I mean, if you quit laughing, you might as well be dead, right? Wow, that sounds profound. Laughter is the best medicine. Clown noses and whoopee cushions will get us out of this, I’m sure of it!

Yes, I’m babbling again. I apologize to whoever ends up transcribing this mess. Should that be whomever? Whatever.

Let me get down to the important stuff. Right now I’m in a room about…oh, a hundred square feet. Eighty, maybe. It’s set up like holding cells at a jail, at least the way they look in the movies, since I’ve never had the pleasure of seeing one in real life. Five cells on each side. There are two doors in the room, one on each end, metal doors with a handle like the kind you see inside of a meat locker, I think. You know, one of those long handles that you pull down. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever been inside of a meat locker. I’m using movies for reference again. And I’m babbling again.

There are eighteen other people in here, mostly two to a cell. Like I said, I’m with Rodney Telfare from Phoenix, one of my co-passengers on the trip here. When I’m done I’ll pass around the recorder and let everyone say their name, just for the record. I only have one other tape, so I hope I don’t run out, but everyone deserves to have their name on the tape so there’s some chance that their families will find out what happened.

Actually, I hope I do run out! That means I’m alive longer than the length of the tapes! I take back my previous comment.

Believe it or not, these cells aren’t all that uncomfortable. There are two beds, with comforters and fluffy pillows. We’ve even got a water cooler. No refrigerator, though. Every cell has its own bookshelf, but every single title on ours is either a horror novel or true crime. Just getting us in the mood, I guess.

Oh, and I can’t forget the inspirational slogan painted on the wall: “Today is probably the last day of your life.” Cute, huh?

I think I’ll hand this over to Rodney now, so he can…no, wait, I think somebody’s unlocking the door.

[Sound of door opening. Footsteps.]

“Hey, dead meats, how’s it going? I’m coming for one of you! One of you gets to die tonight! Whoever could it beeeee? I just don’t know, there are so many fine candidates to choose from! Eenie, meenie, miney, moe, catch a tiger by the toe, if he hollers…oh, no, I like this one. Big and strong. What’s your name, sir?”

“He asked you your name, asshole!”

“Now, Foster, that’s no way to speak to a dying man. You really do need to learn some manners when conversing with people who are just moments away from a ghastly, hideous, unbearably painful death. Again, what’s your name, sir?”

“Rodney Telfare.”

“Rodney Telfare! Well, Rodney, YOU’RE GONNA DIE!!! I hope that hasn’t ruined your evening. All right, Foster, get him out of here and bring him to the ring. I’ll meet you there.”

“Yeah, it would be a shame if you had to do anything around this place.”

“Ah, quit yer dad-blasted bellyachin’. You love using that cattle prod and you know it.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Ta-ta, everyone! Keep looking over your shoulders! You never know, I could be coming for YOU next!”

[Sound of door closing.]

“What a dick. All right, Rod, you can make me work for this, or you can be nice. See this gun? One of your fellow prisoners gets shot for every second of annoyance you cause me, starting with your cellmate. Come over to the bars. Good.”

[A cry of pain. Sound of a body falling.]

“Heh heh, look at him twitch. And if you don’t want to be in his place, you just stay right back there where you are.”

[Sound of cell door sliding open. Body being dragged. Door slamming shut.]

“Damn, what did we feed this guy?”

[Sound of door opening, then closing.]

Oh, God.

I’m…I just…I’m turning off the tape now.