Speak No Evil

TEN

ELIZABETH RIMES was the most beautiful creature on the planet. It was a shame she lived three thousand miles away.

She went to Atlanta Tech, which he’d discovered through a small picture on her online journal. She would never have expected anyone to research the statue in her photo’s background, discovering its history and location on the Atlanta Tech campus.

She lived in an apartment near the campus (“I bike to school every day. It’s a nice ride, not too far. But when it rains I take the bus.”) He figured out which Starbucks she frequented (“I sat and drank my latte and looked at the small lake. It’s peaceful here, I come by almost every day.”) Her favorite singer was Enya, her favorite color sky blue, her favorite movie Sleepless in Seattle.

He hadn’t seen Sleepless in Seattle until he read her journal, then he bought it. It was fate, an omen. The movie was about a long-distance relationship. A woman who was in love with a man she’d never met but felt she knew with all her heart and soul.

Just like he did about Elizabeth.

He had some money saved. He had it all planned. He’d register for classes at Atlanta Tech. Elizabeth had announced that she would be the teaching assistant for a computer design class in the fall. He would be in that class. Find an apartment near hers. Run into her at the Starbucks. Befriend her. Ask her out.

Kiss her. Touch her. Make love to her.

So beautiful. Long, long, soft blond hair. Sweet.

He’d been talking with her through her journal page for months. They’d become friendly and she had given him more details about her life, details that would help him track her down. He knew she had two cats. He pretended to have a cat, even took pictures of the neighbor’s cat to send to her, but truth was he hated them. Dirty animals who licked their butts and ate rotten food. Disgusting.

But Elizabeth loved cats, and so he pretended to. He looked at the picture of Elizabeth with her cats on her journal page and grimaced. One of them had its filthy tongue out and was about to lick her cheek.

When he arrived in Atlanta, the cats were the first thing that had to go. He’d taken care of the beasts before, he would happily do it again. She would never know what happened to them.

He clicked on the message icon for Elizabeth and wrote a message. It was perfect, and he knew she would respond.

Hi Elizabeth. I’m sorry I haven’t been around for the last couple days, but I had some sad news. Remember I told you about my cat Felix? I sent you his picture last month, he’s black and white and very friendly. Well, he was hit by a car Sunday and I took him to the vet but they couldn’t do anything. He died this morning.

I miss him already. The car didn’t even stop.

I wanted to share with someone. My roommate never liked Felix and doesn’t care that he’s gone.

I knew you would understand. How are Scooter and Belle? I hope they’re doing well.

By the way, I’m thinking of transferring to Atlanta Tech in the fall. I applied in the computer engineering department and my professor here gave me a terrific letter of recommendation. Do you know anything about AT? If you don’t, that’s okay.

Talk to you later, I’m going to take Felix’s food and toys to the SPCA, maybe they can use them. Maybe I’ll come back with another cat, though I don’t think anyone can replace Felix.

Your friend.

He signed off with his auto-signature and the avatar of a bouncing smiley face.

If this didn’t work, there would soon be a time when she would let him know everything. He’d make certain of that.

Angie had told him things because he was safe. She trusted him. And she betrayed him by whoring around.

Slut.

He glanced up, wondering if he’d spoken out loud. But no one looked at him. The library was quiet, everyone studying. Normally he wouldn’t go to the library to go online-he didn’t have to, he had a great setup at home-but there was a pretty girl he liked to look at. She worked part-time Tuesday and Thursday nights.

Becca. Not as pretty a name, not as pretty a girl, as Elizabeth, but she was close. So he came to the library when she worked just to look, to hold her image close to him so when he went home he could picture her. Her wide mouth, red lips, sweet smile. He wanted to kiss her, but he never approached her. Twice, she’d come to him to gather books off the table. She smiled at him, murmured hello, complimented his shirt.

When he first met Angie, she was also nice to him. She talked to him, actually seemed interested in what he had to say.

She was a liar. When he’d found her MyJournal page the fantasy that was sweet Angie vanished. He was devastated, livid. She was a whore, a slut, just like the woman who’d turned against his father.

They were all better off dead.

His laptop computer beeped that an e-mail had arrived. Elizabeth.

Heart pounding, he turned his gaze from Becca working the desk and opened the message. It wasn’t from Elizabeth. It was an automatic e-mail alert.

MyJournal tracker has found a recent update on your track list. Click the link below to be taken directly to the updated content.

MyJournal.iloverealmen.com

Angie’s journal.

For a brief moment, a split second, he felt every eye in the library looking at him. Of course they weren’t. They didn’t know what he’d done, they didn’t know who he was. Becca didn’t even know his real name.

He almost clicked on the link. But he didn’t. Couldn’t. Instead he packed up his laptop, avoiding eye contact with anyone. He rushed out, heard Becca ask behind him, “Is something wrong?” He just shook his head at her and left the building. Ran to his car, heart pounding. Drove home. Fast. Too fast.

Slow down. Slow down or you’ll get a ticket.

He eased up on the accelerator a bit, but his head ran through every possible scenario.

That Angie wasn’t dead, that she was alive and the police would be waiting for him at home.

That she was dead and writing from Hell.

That she was alive but didn’t remember anything.

You’re dead! You’re dead!

In the glare of headlights, he saw her ghostly body, her bloody mouth open, accusing him. You raped me.

You’re dead. You can’t tell anyone what happened. You can’t say a word. You’re dead, you slut!

His heart continued to vibrate between his ears, a loud ringing, and he couldn’t hear anything but his internal organs working, working. Heart pumping blood through his veins, his head swelling, filling with certain knowledge that he would be discovered.

He escaped home. Locked, bolted the door. Ran into his bedroom, slammed the door as he tossed his laptop onto his bed. Angie’s soundless scream vibrated in his head and he sank to the floor.

You’re dead. You’re dead.

Several minutes later, he rose unsteady and walked to his desktop computer. Booted the hard drive. The ritual of the computer checking files, the fast zip-zip of the hard drive spinning, soothed him. A few deep breaths later and he almost stopped shaking.

He logged onto his e-mail and clicked on the MyJournal link.

Tribute to our friend Mirage.

Angie’s page, Angie’s online name. But not Angie. A sigh of relief whistled through his lips, and he focused on the “Tribute.” He quickly realized that the author of the journal entry was one or more of Angie’s friends.

I remember a day last month when Mirage went to work. I stopped by to visit, even though it was raining hard. It rarely rains here, but that day it poured.

He thought. That was…late January. Had to be. There were only a couple days last month that it rained.

Mirage got off early because it was so slow, and we sat in the corner talking about our first time…you know, the first time we had sex.

Eager and anxious and horrified, he read on.

I was a late bloomer. My first time was only three months ago, shortly after I started classes at the same university where Mirage and our other friends go. His name was, oops! Can’t say his name. Okay, his “name” was S. and he’s a junior. Plays water polo. Fabulous body.

The first time was icky, but S. told me the second would be better. It was…Mirage promised me my first “real” orgasm would be wonderful (you know, the kind that isn’t self-induced) and she was right. S. went down and licked me until I orgasmed and I swear I saw fireworks…

Fists clenched, he read on. Each of Angie’s friends wrote about their first time, and as the stories went on they became more lewd and detailed, just like Angie used to write.

I broke up with S. when I started seeing S… whoops! Same initials, different guys, hahaha. S2 was really experienced. You know, an older man. And he did things to me that made my head spin…

One night on the beach behind his apartment we made love in a sleeping bag. The possibility of being caught in the act was such a turn-on. I never thought having a guy suck my tits would be so sexy, but when S2 did it I felt hot from the inside out…

At the end, he had the three whores figured out.

Abby wrote about her first time, first and only boyfriend. She was in high school, it was in the back of his car, and she was still dating him though he went to college out of state.

Kayla was a dyke. Well, “bisexual” was probably the politically correct term, since she screwed both men and women. Whore.

It was Jodi he was shocked about. Jodi who had dated the two S’s. Jodi who he’d thought was the nicest of Angie’s three friends. The one he least expected this bad behavior from.

He knew it was her because of the last line she wrote.

Mirage was the best friend I could ever have. She convinced me to cut my hair, which I had barely even trimmed in forever. I cut it to my shoulders, added some highlights, and haven’t been without a date since. She brought out the best in me, inside and outside, and I’ll miss her forever.

He remembered the exact day Jodi had cut her hair. At the time, he didn’t think she was flirting, just proud of her pretty style, but now he knew better. Now he knew the truth.

Fucking whore.

He closed down the browser, unable to read the journal anymore, though he knew he’d be back online later. To read it again, to see the truth about the girl he never expected to kiss and tell.

So, she likes her tits sucked? Maybe she’d like them sucked right off her fucking body.

Pulse racing, he slammed a tape into the VCR. It was by far the most vicious of the five, and usually he couldn’t watch it. He didn’t like the blood. But this time he needed it, this time he would force himself to watch the whole thing.

The slut was thrown onto the cement floor. Fucked in the ass while her head banged against the wall. Blood, black in the grainy, colorless film, trickled from her mouth. Then, chained against the wall, arms and legs spread wide. Discoloration covered her body. He watched her mouth open, her vocal cords stretch. A whip came out, the dark stripes dripped down, down.

She stayed like that for a minute, crying, hanging against the wall. She was taken again, by a different man. Then another. Three men. They shared.

Disgusting. He would never share.

Then the worst part. Except for the first time, he always turned off the tape after the third guy screwed her.

But not now. Both repelled and fascinated, he forced himself to watch.

The first man came back, and he could see his profile. Hard. He brought the woman down off the wall and threw her on a mattress in the corner. The angle of the camera changed. A close-up of him pinning her down with his body. Entering her.

Then the knife. It came out fast, from under the mattress. He pulled her head back by her hair and with one swift, deep stroke across her neck blood sprayed everywhere. The walls. The mattress. All over the killer as he arched his back and orgasmed.

His stomach churned at the sight, but still he watched as the woman bucked in her last response to inevitable death; as the blood spurted, a drop fell across the video camera’s lens.

Drip, drip, drip.

Blackness.

He wiped his face, surprised that sweat poured off his skin. His body shook and he looked down, saw that he had come in his pants.

He hid the films, went to the bathroom, and showered in icy water. Soon, his blood cooled, his heart slowed, his body returned to normal.

And he came up with a plan to deal with whores who kiss and tell.