63 comments/ 101966 views/ 21 favorites Un-Merciful Heart By: Chagrined This is the third installment of the 'Un-Break My Heart' sequels. Yes, I know that "unmerciful" isn't hyphenated. It is called literary license. The same rules apply. If you are looking for a happy ending sorry, many things don't end happily. Read a fairy tale, (as long as it isn't the Brothers Grimm). While this is not a Loving wife story, it does continue the events which were first chronicled there. It was added for continuity. Un-Break My Heart was a dark vignette and I just can't get around a happy ending for it. To the reader: I have taken a different tact from most others in writing this. In most stories, the person the protagonist is cheating with just happened to be in the right place at the right time. Most times their actions are seen solely as a lustful consequence of actions known to us; performed by the male or female protagonist without any real consequences befalling the convenient cock or pussy. I don't happen to share that view. They are now actors and not just acted upon. They are now an integral part of the story and shouldn't be allowed to just exit stage left when Janet and Dan kiss and make up or when Harry and Joyce decide to try a more open arrangement. No, they need closure too. What if Joyce doesn't want to be a cum bucket for Tom? What if Wilma really likes that meat she's getting fed and decides to break up the marriage, kids or no kids? (shades of fatal attraction) What if, God forbid, Harry gets a real case of the ass over being relegated to second cock or in some cases no cock? Should Tom get out of jail free? No consequences for Wilma or Ted. Also, I wanted to explore the concept of the sexual predator, the predator that seeks out vulnerable relationships, as well as the predator who hunts for the most vulnerable of us. They are out there. So is Turner Again, thanks to Patricia51 for allowing the "use" of a character or two to lend a sense of place and time. Thanks to the readers who liked the original story and those who didn't. And special thanks to the editor: LadyCibelle. I hope you weren't kept awake too many nights! * * * * * Deputy Inspector Pat Gibson was rushed. This wasn't particularly surprising. Her position as backup Children's Protective Services liaison officer for the Sheriff's Department frequently kept her rushing from one place to another, one case to another. Add to that the normal case load of a working inspector, the ubiquitous paperwork, and the demands of a working wife and mother and one would normally expect to find her rushed. What was unique this time was that she was on time. Her husband, Mike Gibson, now head of the Tactical Response Unit had called her to sit in on the briefing on the whereabouts of a missing person, Daniel Turner. Normally, this would have not been within either's scope of duties but the Gibson's had been the filing officers that rainy night Turner had been admitted to County General and both had developed an interest in the man's case. Turner had been brought into County Hospital, broken, sobbing and rain soaked. In deep shock, all anyone had been able to get from the man was the run-on expression "un-break my heart" over and over until the combination of drugs and exhaustion overcame him. Turner was placed under observation and later sent to the state-run sanitarium where, after six months of treatment, it had been decided that he was functional enough to leave. Upon his release, the senior hospital administrator had sent an advisory to all local PD as well as the Sheriff's Department to keep the man under loose observation. The only known contact had been a brief meeting between Turner and his wife, now undergoing divorce proceedings. The next day Turner had disappeared. She turned the corner stepped into the interview room where she and the other officers involved in Turner's disappearance were to meet. Pat Gibson was greeted by the grinning presence of her husband. "Hey, you made it!" Pat looked around at the empty room. "So where is everyone? " Mike came around to where his wife stood next to the door. "They are probably on their way. But you know we could put this time to good use," he teased and reached his arms around her. "Mike, in the station?" she exclaimed. Her husband smiled into her face. "Why not? I thought that we might refine our frisking techniques" She laughed throatily. "You are frisky enough as it is! Ohhh!" The door came open and banged into her knee and the face of Lieutenant Linda Shannon peeked through the aperture. "Why don't you two get a hotel room?" she admonished without stepping into the room. "Because you never give us two consecutive days off together," Mike explained. "Damn, I almost forgot! I do have a piece of information on Turner while we are here!" He reached across to the table next to him and pulled a file from his duty board roster. With flourish he announced, " Voila! Turners DD214, or parts of it. A good portion was blacked out before it was given to me." Pat looked at her husband and frowned. "Let me guess? Special Forces? Seals?" A look of concern crossed her husband's face. "Nope. I wish it were that tame." "Psy Ops?" his wife asked. "What the hell is that?" "Psychological Operations. Military Intelligence. These folks are trained in how to fuck with your head and never lay a hand on you. In a week they can have you jumping at your own shadow. Give them 2 weeks and you will kill your best friend if they ask you to. Three weeks with them and you will kill him and eat the body. A month and you will do anything they ask. Very hush hush and deep black ops. These folks give the guys over in Spec Ops nightmares. Turner worked for them for 15 years in one capacity or another before he married and came to live here." Lieutenant Shannon took the folder and looked it over. "And this is relevant how?" "Well, if we see a man playing solitaire with a deck of cards and muttering to himself we'll know who to look for," he explained with a shrug. Linda gave him a playfully disgusted look. "Well, I hate to bring this up but I need Pat" "So do I," Mike complained. Pat gave her long suffering husband a reproachful look. "What do you need, Lieutenant?" "A cowbell hung around her neck?" Mike offered but no one acknowledged the observation. "Pat, the vice-principal, Mr. Simmons, over at Fraser Middle School in Dale just called. There has been a guy coming by checking out the kids while they are out during their lunch break. He believes it's Leonard Strickland. Can you go check it out for me? My usual person is in court this afternoon." Without a pause, Pat moved off past the lieutenant. "On it." She stopped as her husband called her name. "If it is Strickland, have the vice-principal give Tactical a call next time," he grinned. She smiled at her husband. "Will do. That will just make his day!" The man sat eating his lunch watching the children play. The yard of Fraser Middle School was not usually filled in early March but the slate of warm temperatures had brought the youngsters out. The man bit into a moist ham sandwich he had made that morning, as he scanned the yard. His eyes fell on a girl leaning against a school wall. Her hair was long and blond, surrounding a small oval face. Her body was still slender, her breasts only just beginning to hint at the fullness to come. She had placed one foot against the wall, carelessly revealing the crook of her knee and a length of slim thigh. Washing the bite down with a swig of Pepsi, he noted that no one came around her. She stood alone, watching the others at play; mindful of her solitude. He took another thoughtful bite of the sandwich. He could use that. She was probably a new student, he guessed. She hasn't yet made friends or formed a cadre of companions. He watched as the girl smiled wanly as a group of boys raced past her, yelling something. She watched them for a moment then peered down at her feet. The man nodded to himself. Yes. This could very easy. And she was the perfect age. He set his sandwich down and opened a small packet of potato chips and began munching thoughtfully. The urge was still there. The drugs and treatments had taken the edge off but his body still needed release. He had tried to assuage that need with older women. He had even had an affair with a married woman several months ago before her husband had walked in and caught them. He smiled at the memory of the look of shock on the husband's face followed by revulsion; he had taunted the hubby about the husband being the last to know. The husband, because he certainly was no man, had just turned and fled. But even that episode had soured. The cops had started coming around, a prospect the man on the bench didn't need. This was followed quickly by the Department of Social Services nosing around. He had dropped the woman quickly after that. And she had been a great fuck with the added benefit of having two succulent little girls of her own. "Get up, Strickland," came a harsh voice from behind. Strickland set down his lunch, rose and turned. His eyes met the stony gaze of what was obviously a sheriff's female plainclothes officer. She was perhaps 5'5' with dark hair. Her expression was one of quiet disgust. Behind her stood a mousy man who Strickland knew to be a vice-principal of the school. "Come around here; you know the drill." She said as he came around and assumed a position leaning on the back of the bench. "Get your feet back." She began a pat down search. "Strickland, you know you aren't allowed within 500 feet of a school. What are you doing here?" she continued. "This violates your parole. I can run you straight back to prison. Is that what you want?" He looked back at her from over his shoulder. "I wasn't doing anything but eating my lunch. Can't a man have a little lunch outside on a day like this without the cops harassing him?" Gibson had just finished checking his pockets when she looked up at his face. "Yeah, a man can, Strickland. But you are no man. You" she said shoving her finger into his chest to emphasize her point, "You are a piece of shit. Shit should stay in a sewer. As I recall, we asked you nicely to leave town." He resumed his position. "I can live anywhere I want as long as I notify the PD of my whereabouts. I did leave where I was living. You and DSS/CPS saw to that. That could be called harassment. What more do you want." "Citizens can be harassed, Strickland, not shit." Pat Gibson looked at him levelly. "Why are you are still in our jurisdiction, Strickland? We want you out of the country but we'll settle for out of the county. It is a good thing Mr. Simmons here saw you and recognized you from our flyers. No telling what you would be up to by now." The two stared at one another for a long minute. They knew the next one to speak lost. "So are you going to arrest me?" He asked. She shook her head. "No, I'm not. But, I will be watching you. Sooner or later you will screw up big time and I can bust you and send you back for something other than violation. Now get out of here and do not come back. If you are found here again, Mr. Simmons has orders to call the lieutenant of Tactical." She smiled. "And you have no idea how much my husband would love to get that call." Strickland retrieved what was left of his sandwich and began walking back to his place of work, aware of the pair of eyes boring into his back from the office. What he was not aware of, what none of them was aware, was a fourth set of eyes watching his progress. Less than one hundred feet from where the man had been sitting another man stood observing the entire encounter. He had not moved from his spot since Strickland had seated himself outside the school twenty minutes previously. The watcher was of average height and weight with a slender whip cord body. Dressed chinos, a blue polo shirt and deck shoes, he appeared like any successful dot-com professional out taking a walk from any set in the industrial park two blocks down the street. His dark hair was cut short and neatly combed save for the comma of dark hair which came down over his right eye. Their expressionless gaze held on Strickland until he turned the far corner before stepping off in the same direction. Leonard Strickland made his way down the hall to the cube he shared wit another worker at the receiving dock of BioMetric Pharmaceuticals. It was old and worn with the stains of years of use in shipping and receiving. He sat down in a worn swivel chair and began counting the containers for the shipment going out to the Seattle office. The work was boring and the pay was terrible but he was always frugal so he had been able to make ends meet with a little left over for his weekend "activities" as he liked to call them. This had been the best job he could land after leaving his former employment where he had worked as a sales representative. That had been a dream job. Nice surroundings, free coffee and a supervisor who had spent more time banging away the tired old sack of flesh he called his assistant that he did paying attention to the floor. That was where he had met the Turner broad and since then, events had been on a decided decline. Not that he blamed her. With his record it had been lucky to find this job. But, after having been pulled in twice for questioning after the husband had disappeared things had become a little strained at the company and Strickland had decided to leave. Most of the people he had worked with knew he had been banging Sheryl Turner and he made no attempt to hide it. He flaunted it in fact. She had a nice body, big natural tits with huge nipples. She loved to have them sucked. Nice legs and a pretty firm round ass for a woman her age. But there had been two things he really loved about her. One was her clit. He had never seen one like it. When she got excited it would stand out away from her pussy like a miniature cock. He had loved that; she did dearly love to come. She had complained that ever since her "weak–assed", that was her term for him, husband had begun climbing the corporate ladder he hadn't had the time she wanted him to have for her. Which had been a lot of crap, Strickland knew. She had just wanted cock, and a lot of it. And Strickland, with 9 inches of prime Kansas beefsteak had been just the man to give it to her. The second thing Strickland relished was that she had two daughters and paid little attention to either of them. When Strickland had heard about the daughters he had worked harder at getting the mother into his bed and he into her home to see just what was available. The plan had almost died in stillbirth when on his first time at her house he had been feeding it to the mother. She was a yeller when her time came; she was just reaching her peak when he looked over and saw the middle girl, looking around the corner. Strickland kept up the pace and smiled, reassuring the child that mommy was just fine. The kid turned and left. When they were finished, Strickland had expected to see them in the living room but they were nowhere to be found. They had obviously made their own way back to the sitters next door. Then the bottom fell out of his design on the night the husband had come home. Strickland couldn't resist taking a jab at the poor cuckolded son of a bitch. He had almost felt sorry for him. The guy was out working hard to provide a better quality of life for the wife and there she was, legs in the air giving it up for the first guy with a big cock. When he had run out, Strickland had tried to restrain her but she was pretty upset by then. It finally dawned on her that her chuck wagon was rolling away and she had called the police. When they arrived he had had to sit in the bedroom waiting for them to leave. While waiting, it came to him that he had left his raincoat laid out on the sofa to dry. The sheriff's investigation eventually turned him over. He had been pulled in for questioning twice. His management at work was beginning to look at him as more a liability than an asset. By that time, a confluence of factors: a husband in a state institution, the wife nagging Strickland about his promise to marry her, and the police and CPS were almost camped outside her door and his work reexamining his viability caused him to take action. He dumped her and made plans to change places of employment. It wasn't until a few days later that several of the sheriff's finest came by and suggested that he leave town. He did. Strickland took a clipboard of completed order forms from his desk. Beneath them he saw the manila colored envelope used to house inter-office memos. On the front was a double row of blank lines where one could fill in the addresses name. Several names had been crossed off already indicating that it had been used several times. The remaining name was his. He frowned and picked it up. He spilled the contents onto the desk. They consisted of two prints from a digital camera. The prints were taken that day at lunch. The first was of him alone sitting on the bench eating his lunch. The second was of him and a short dark haired woman facing one another. Strickland recognized it as he and Gibson from lunch that day. On the back of this was note contained one line in precise handwriting; Today. There was no signature. Shaken, Strickland spent the next couple of days quietly. He did not go out to watch the school at lunch nor did he go out in the evening for a beer as he usually did. Instead he watched and waited. Occasionally he would get a glimpse of movement or a snap of sound but these he chalked up to nerves. He took a different route from his usual for the next two days. He paid attention to co-workers and their interest in him. Each time he came back to his desk expecting another envelope. The first day, the envelope appeared. If contained a photo of him purchasing a coffee at Starbucks. The next day another arrived. It illustrated his entrance to work. The message was clear. His biographer was familiar enough with Strickland's life that changing a single aspect would have no effect on their ability to track him. If a man needs to be at point A at a certain point at certain time, how he arrived there was of little importance. After the third day no further envelopes welcomed him. After a week, he believed it was safe to return to the school. He had decided that the envelopes and their contents had most likely been supplied by a member of the Sheriff's Department and sent to un-nerve him. It hadn't worked. Just that afternoon he had made a first cautious contact with the young girl. Pretending to be a visiting parent he had opened up a conversation and discovered several facts. The girls name was Deidre and she had just transferred to the area from a school in the northeast. Her mother had divorced just two years previously from the girl's father. Strickland was delighted to find that the girl had been upset at the move due to the fact that she had adored her father. Strickland knew that this too could be worked into his favor. At first he had toyed with the idea of approaching the mother. He knew she worked at BioMetrics as he did but quickly rejected the idea. The taste of the Turner woman was still fresh in his mouth. It had been surprisingly easy. The girl was a latchkey kid and lonely. After his initial meeting he managed to arrange two other meeting. By the third, he had convinced her to accompany him to a mall the following Thursday night as her mother had to work late on a project. He set his plans and waited. Thursday night arrived and Deidre Simmons smiled as she contemplated her reflection in the mirror. Her mouth set in a frown as she noticed a small patch of red begin to form on her forehead. Damn! What a time to get a zit, she thought. Her first date and she was getting a pimple. Well, she corrected herself. It wasn't really a date. Mr. Davis was really much too old. She had really been flattered when he had asked her to meet him at the mall to help him pick out a pair of shoes for his niece's graduation from middle school. Men really had no taste in clothes. He had told her about how he had noticed how well she dressed and wanted her help. At least he paid attention to her; not like her mother. Since the divorce her mother had been too busy to pay attention to her or anyone except her job; and her father was 800 miles away. He still called her though; still called her his 'green–eyed girl'. She missed her father. Un-Merciful Heart The jingle of the phone shook her from her reverie. "Hello? Oh yes, Mr. D., I remember. Outside the Chicken Delight at 7 o'clock. Yeah, I remember. Okay. What kind of shoes does your niece usually wear? Okay, well I think I can pick out a good pair. Okay, see you then." She hung up the phone. It was 6:30. She had plenty of time to get to the mall. She looked one last time at her reflection in the mirror. One day a lot of people are going to pay attention to me, she thought. Turning, she grabbed her little purse and set off. Behind her, sitting on the bed sat the cell phone her mother had bought for her so that she was always contactable. As she walked out the door it began to ring but she never gave it a second thought. The Galleria Mall is a meetings place for both adolescents and adults alike just as most shopping malls around the nation. Every night one can watch as the young and old alike battle lines and traffic to "hook up" or grab a quick bite at a food court before catching that flick at the multiplex. As Deidre came around the corner she wondered whether Mr. Davis would get her a new pair of shoes as well. She would like a new pair. Her mom hadn't taken her shopping since they had moved here and Deidre's wardrobe was becoming less than extensive. She knew her mom had the money; between the child support from her father and her mother's job, Deidre knew they were more than comfortable. But her mom was always busy. Deidre was given a credit card and allowed to pick out what she needed. That was not what Deidre needed. She smiled with delight as she met the man she knew as Mr. Davis. He complimented her clothes and they went off to find a shoe store she liked. While there, Mr. Davis asked her what style she liked, what would wear well? He cared about her opinion. Once they had decided on a style and color, Davis bought two pair; one in Deidre's size which he presented to her as "payment for fine services rendered". She threw her arms around his neck and thanked him. Presently she looked at the time. It was approaching 8:15 and she expected her mother home by 9 o'clock. "Mr. Davis I have to go home." She explained. "What so soon? I was hoping we could get something to eat" he protested. "I'd really like to but I have to be home by 8:30." "May I give you a ride?" "No. I just live a few blocks away. I can take the bike path through the park and be home in ten minutes." Mr. Davis knew exactly where Deidre lived and how to get there. "Well, let me walk you then. It would be safer and I would feel better about it." Together they walked out of the mall and Mr. Davis steered Deidre toward the worn bike path. A figure in grey separated from the shadows where he had been waiting and followed them into the night. They strolled for a time, talking. Deidre told Mr. Davis about her mother, father and family life. He seemed interested. As they walked, Davis seemed to move closer, to find excuses to make physical contact. Finally, he stopped as if out of breath about 500 yards from the end of the bike path. He bent over clutching at his knees and asked, "Mind if we stop to let me catch my breath? I'm a little out of shape for this." She shrugged. "Sure" Standing, he moved off to the side of the bike path and sat bracing his back against a tree. Hesitantly, she walked over and took a space next to him. She smiled up at him as she busied herself wit an errant blade of grass. "Do you have any children, Mr. Davis?" Davis laughed huskily. "No" He reached out and put an arm comfortingly around her slender shoulders. "But if I did, I would want her to be just like you, Deidre." He tightened his arm and pulled the girl closer. Deidre was uncomfortable with this but she decided to ignore it. He had been so kind to her and he was the only friend she had. He was the only one she could confide in. What if he got mad and wouldn't talk to her anymore? "You know, I really like you," Davis said. "You are special to me" The girl laughed nervously. "I like you too, Mr. Davis." The man moved closer. His eyes met her and he smiled. "Would you mind if I kissed you, Deidre?" The girl looked back in surprise. "I don't know if that would be right, Mr. Davis." The man smiled and caressed the face. His finger traced the outline of her lips as he replied "Shush. We're friends now. Haven't I been your friend? And a little peck between friends isn't bad. It's a sign of affection." His mouth drew closer to the girls. She began to look around. The phone. The cell phone. If she could get to it! Suddenly, the realization that she had left it at home struck her. She was alone again. Alone with this man. "I...I don't know, Mr. Davis. My mother said.." "Your mother isn't here now. And you don't have to call me Mr. Davis any more. Friends call each other by their name. You can call me Len." His mouth came down over the young girls and his tongue began to seek hers. The girl tried to pull away but Davis held her tightly. Her hands reached up and tried pushing him away but his weight and strength were too much for the youngster. Suddenly a sharp crack of wood broke the night and a voice spoke. "Len, let the girl go." Strickland/Davis spun around at the sound of the voice. "Who's out there?" he demanded. The girl was clearly frightened now but was uncertain as to what provided the greater threat. "Mr. Davis?" she asked plaintively. The man who had just moments ago been assaulting her jumped to his feet. "I said who's out there!" The girl stood up and tried to hold onto the man Davis seeking any protection. "Mr. Davis, who is it?" her voice trembled. Davis pushed her back to the ground. "Shut up!" he said as his eyes peered into the gloom. He stood there listening but the only sounds were the night and the now sobbing girl at his feet. He never heard the shape approach as it hit him from behind, a quick clip on the back of the head. Davis/Strickland fell in a heap. Deidre looked up at a figure in grey. She could just make out the cold features in the reflected moonlight. The eyes were strange and reminded her of the eyes of a fish she had caught one day while with her father. The shape stood looking at the man she had known as Davis before turning to her. Her heart began to pound with fear. "Go home, Deidre." it said. "What?" the child stammered. "I said go home. Don't stop for anything or anyone. Call your mother immediately. When she gets home, tell her what happened." it explained. She tried to get to her feet but tripped. The figure reached down and helped her to her feet. She looked into the cold fish eyes. "Who are you?" she asked weakly. "Tonight, I am your guardian angel. But I may not be here the next time. Do as I say. Go home call your mother." The child looked down at the unconscious man who had once been her friend. "But what about Mr. Davis?" The figure looked back down at the man. "He is none of your concern. I will attend to him. He won't be hurting anyone any longer. Now go!" Slowly at first the girl backed away from the scene. Then with a whirl she turned and sprinted for the warmth and safety of home leaving the nightmare behind her. She didn't stop until she reached home and picked up the phone dialing the number to her mother's office. Along the bike path, a grey clad figure stooped down and retrieved the body and slung it over its shoulder in a fireman's carry. He turned and stepped off to where he had a waiting car. Light filtered dimly through his eyelids beckoning him back to consciousness. His mind was fuzzy, his thoughts unfocused. His mouth had the bitter stringent taste of rubbing alcohol. He tried to move but his hands and feet felt leaden and dead. He opened his eyes. The grey-black film yielded no distinct images. He tried raising his head, after a few tries he realized it was useless and set it back down the scratchy surface beneath him. He lay there and took stock of his surrounding. The first thing he noted was that his arms were stretched out in front of him. They were also numb and useless. He could feel a rough surface beneath his chest supporting him but his legs were perpendicular to the floor. "Back from the dead, I see," a voice reached him from beyond the grey haze. Strickland looked over his shoulder. Behind him stood a slender grey-clad form, its hands busy doing something, but from the angle Strickland couldn't tell what. There was no face visible; the features hidden beneath a grey ski mask. "Hey, help me outta this!" Strickland rasped. "I can't move my arms." The voice came back. "Don't worry. You'll be able to move somewhat in a moment" the voice reassured him. Strickland tried to rise again. "What happened? Where am I?" The form moved around the table and came to rest in front of Strickland. He could see what was in the hand. It was a miniature baseball bat, of the sort sold to children at the ball park. The figure held it in his right hand, gently tapping the other with the flared head. "Hey! Get me out of this, I said!" Strickland ordered. The hand holding the miniature bat flashed down and struck the outstretched left arm of the restrained man. Strickland could hear his radius break as the pain sent a wave of nausea though him. He vomited on the table. "I thought a man's man like you would be more stoic, Len." The voice admonished. Hands picked up his head and set it to the side out of the mess in front of him. "There. That's better. Now let's get you cleaned up" The figure moved up and began to unfasten the ropes which had held Strickland face down and immobile. As the figure worked on the restrains of the left hand, pain seared up along the arm and Strickland passed out. When he awoke again he noted he was no longer lying face down but slumped in a frail wicker chair. A hasty sling held the damaged left arm along his stomach. He was also naked. From this position he could better see his surroundings. He appeared to be in a small ancient wood structure. As a boy he had seen places like this on his uncle's ranch in Colorado where they had been called line shacks. Their use had declined but the occasional specimen could be found from time to time. They were usually small, empty, and remote. Strickland heard a noise off to his left and his eyes focused on the figure busily working on the one other piece of furniture in the shack; a small wooden table which appeared to be fixed securely to the floor by 'L' clamps. Strickland guessed it was to this he had first been strapped. The man appeared to be attaching something to the table top. "Hey," a sharp stab of pain ran through him and he had to fight back the nausea once again. Without looking up from his work, the figure said "I wouldn't make any sudden moves were I you. That arm is just slung, the bone wasn't set." "Hey, what are you doing? Where am I?" The figure stood and gazed at its work. Satisfied, the mask swung over in the seated man's direction. "There. That should work, don't you think?" the figure walked over and towered over the seated man and looked at him as if regarding some strange new form of life. The mini-bat tapped idly on his right leg. "Strickland, I am going to pick you up and take you over to the table. If you do anything other than walk I will tap that arm again. Do you understand?" Strickland flinched at the thought of further contact with his injured arm. "Yes," he rasped "Good" the figure bent and helped Strickland to his feet. For a moment the injured man entertained the thought of making a grab for the mini-bat. The dark clad form holding him sensed this and rotated his body away from his prisoner. They walked over to the table. Strickland could see what the man had been doing. There, firmly attached to the table was a small table vise. The man had Strickland stand facing the vice at the edge of the table. He looked at Strickland and for the fist time Strickland could see the cold lifeless eyes of his captor. Before he could say anything however, the man reached out, grabbed Strickland penis and genitals and set them firmly in the vice and spun the handle drawing the jaws together with Strickland's genitals in place. Strickland was still too weak to resist as the jaws of the vice gripped at his privates. Firmly set, the figure withdrew the bar from the vice which allowed the jaws movement. The captive was awash in the combined pain of the arm and his captured genitals. The figure opened the small door and tossed the bat into the night. Fear now began to flood into Strickland's psyche. He gaped at the grey clad man and whispered through clenched teeth "I know you from somewhere. What the hell are you doing?" The man in grey stood there regarding the pitiful thing before him. "Well, I'm your guardian angel here to offer you a choice in life, Leonard. The kind of choice you never bothered to offer anyone else." Strickland tried to move toward the grey figure and reeled back in pain from his vice locked cock. "What kind of fucking psycho are you? Let me go." "Why, Leonard, whether or not you go free is entirely your decision. Your choice." His captor corrected. "I know that voice. Who the hell are you?" Strickland shouted. The figure put a leg up and sat on the desktop inches from Strickland. The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a blue tipped kitchen match. He looked at his charge and said "Do you mind? No, of course you don't. I gave them up once but took the habit up again. Let's you and I talk a little. How about that?" he took a drag from the cigarette and went on. "I told you before I am your guardian angel. No, rather I am an avenging angel. Tell me, where you going to rape that young girl if I hadn't stopped you?" Fear etched itself into Strickland. "Yeah, but she wanted it." He began to struggle vainly against the strength of the vise. "Be careful, there. You are going to tear it off and deprive all those women. Len, tell me, you say she wanted it. How did you know that?" Hope began to build in Strickland. If he could just keep this psycho talking long enough maybe help would come. Perhaps he could buy enough time to get out himself. Either way it was more time than he had now. "Did you see her? Her cute little titties just begging to get sucked and the way she played up to the boys on the school grounds? All I needed was to get her alone for a bit." He looked suspiciously at the grey figure casually sitting, smoking. "Why do want to know?" The man ignored the question. "We are coming to the end of our time together. But there are some things I want you to know." The figure drew closer to the captive man. His voice took a steel edge as he continued. "Some would call me insane, and perhaps I am. Hard to tell sometimes where the line gets drawn. But you are just a plain disease, a virus that enters and destroys everything it comes into contact with. You didn't ask my permission when you entered my life." He hissed. "You didn't ask my children if they minded having their world upset. You didn't care when you took everything I had worked for and soiled it. You didn't care when you helped to destroy my trust in my wife, my children's faith in their mother. Tell me, did you touch my children?" Strickland stared with wide eyes at the apparition before him. "I don't even know who you are, man!" The figure pushed his face closer to Strickland's. "Yes, you do. Think." Recognition poured over Strickland's face. "Shit. You're her husband!" The two faces were an inch apart now. "Whose husband? Say her name, Len. You fucked her. You fucked her everyway you could. You fucked her mouth; you fucked her ass. You fucked her in my home, in my bed, and with my children in the house. You fucked me. The least you can do is to say her fucking name!" the voice had risen with each accusation until the last was nearly screamed. For a drawn-out moment the two pairs of eyes held one another. Finally, Strickland relented from the shark-like eyes of his captor. "Sheryl. Sheryl Turner." The man sat back, satisfied. "There. I knew you could do it. I ask you one last time. Did you touch my children?" Strickland, terrified, shook his head. "No, man, no, she never let me alone with them. I swear I never touched your kids. Please, God, believe me!" "But you would have, Len. Sooner or later, you would have. Teresa somehow knew it. That was why she called me at work that night." "So that was why you showed up! Sheryl had said you were working late and that we had all the evening. She really freaked when you showed up." "I am sure she did. 'Oh, well, the husband is always the last to know.' right Len? How did you get her to believe you were going to marry her?" Strickland looked up at the man. He must have found out about that from the wife. "Hell, you know how it is. They all think their pussy is so good that once you have a taste of theirs you'll think it's the only cunt in town. She believed it because she wanted to believe it". Strickland sat silent and sullen. He knew he was going to die now. He could look into the cold eyes and see his own death. The figure rose and stepped aside. Strickland looked about the room for a weapon or something he could use to free himself from the vise. The room was empty save for him, the table and the vise securely fastened to it. Presently the man returned with three pails. They smelled of gasoline. He glanced at his captive still struggling against his prison. "Oh, you can forget that, Len. I got the idea for that from a porn story. It had talked about 'his cock was trapped in the vise-like grip of her legs'. Funny what some folks think is erotic, isn't it?" "What is that? What are you going to do?" The man shook his head reproachfully. "I am surprised you were such a cock's man. You like to climax much too quickly!" The figure kicked at one of the pails. "This? This is a true Molotov cocktail. Did you know that during the battle of Stalingrad, I believe it was, when the Russians were tossing bottles with rag wicks against the oncoming German armor, they found that is was useless. Gasoline just runs off. "So they needed something to make it stick to what they wanted to burn. You know what they found? Common laundry detergent! When mixed with gasoline it creates an adhesive. The overall effect is similar to napalm." The man began to spread the gasoline along the walls and floor being careful not to spill anything on himself. Strickland was panicked now; He struggled and cried out against the vise which kept him prisoner." What are you going to do?" he cried out. Finished, the man turned and looked at the pathetic "thing" in front of him. "I told you, nothing, except offer you three choices." "Three choices?" "Yes. The first is that you can stay here, caught up in that vise until you starve or are found. Of course, it is a bit remote here so you may not be found for some time. I think you may die from either starvation or possibly your bladder will explode before that happens. That is choice number one" Strickland could no longer hide the fear in his voice. "What is the second choice?" The figure walked over to the door and stood there a minute before reaching into his pocket and pulling something out which he tossed on the table. Strickland looked down and saw a plain, cream colored plastic knife with a serrated edge. It was too flimsy to use on the table and he couldn't use it to replace the chuck in the vise and open it. "What am I supposed to do with that?" he asked incredulously. The man looked at him. "Surely that is easy to figure out. You," the man paused to let the words sink in, "cut your cock and balls free and leave". Strickland looked up in terror. Cut himself free? He would have to castrate himself! "Are you insane!?" Now the man who had brought so much pain to Turner's life began to see the ramifications of what he had done. Un-Merciful Heart The figure turned and began to step out the door. "Wait!" Strickland called out hysterically." You said I had a third choice! A third choice!" The eyes turned for a final time to Strickland. The man who had come in and helped himself to Turner's wife, his home, would have helped himself to Turner's children as he had done before. "You are right, so I did." The dark avenger reached into his pocket and pulled out a blue tipped, kitchen match. Now, Strickland screamed as the full weight of his situation came down. His panic-filled eyes swept from the man to the gasoline soaked walls. For the first time in nearly a year the thin lips parted in a genuine smile as Turner struck the match with his thumbnail. "You can burn in hell, you son of a bitch!" he condemned as he tossed the lighted match against the gas soaked wall. Immediately the wall went up in a conflagration. Turner turned and walked off into the dark night toward the place he had parked his car. His only companions on the return were the screams of the man in the shack making his choice. Lieutenant Linda Shannon looked over at the detective staring intently at the road leading back to the Sheriff's Department headquarters. They had received a call from the Dale Fire Department to report that a man maimed and badly burned had been found along route 233 just outside of Dale. An advanced medical burn unit had been dispatched as had elements of the Sheriff's. The identification found with him identified him as one Leonard Strickland. It was believed that he would live but he had received 3rd degree burns over 25% percent of his body. In addition, his genitals had been removed, an apparent self–mutilation. Linda looked over to her friend. "Well, looks like you won't have to worry about Strickland anymore." Pat Gibson kept her eyes focused on the road in front of her trying without success to drive the sight of Strickland's burned, mutilated body being taken away to the burn unit. "No, I don't suppose so. Even if the man lives, which I doubt, he'll never be a threat to anyone again." Shannon shifted in her seat. "We had a call earlier last night from a mother saying that her daughter had been accosted along the bike path near the Galleria Mall in Dale. Do you think Strickland might have been involved with that?" Pat Gibson took a deep breath. "I think it's highly likely." They sat for a while with only the occasional squawk from the radio dispatch unit breaking the silence. Finally, Linda tuned to her fellow officer. "Damn! He'll be pissing into a bag for the rest of his life. Do you think he did that to himself?" Pat took her eyes from the road for a moment at looked at her companion. "Do you? What could make a man do that to himself? Strickland was a pervert and a borderline sociopath but he wasn't psychotic." Linda returned he gaze to the landscape passing by her window. Soon it would be daylight echoing in a new day. "Did you know that crime scene had found a second set of footprints at the scene? They also found the tracks of a car. Someone was there with Strickland. Do you have any idea who that might be?" Inspector Pat Gibson bit her lower lip. "I can't lie. I think I know who it was. But if I am correct, I also think that if anything was ever justified, this was." She looked at the lieutenant. "Are you sorry for Strickland? You know what he was. I don't advocate taking the law into your own hands, you know that. Mike wouldn't either." Pat turned attention back to the traffic. "But sometimes fate steps in and takes over." "But.." Linda continued. "We exist to serve and protect. That's what we tell people." Pat continued. "Sometimes we can serve but we can rarely protect. We serve the criminal justice system. We have a lot of criminals, and something of a system. Sometimes, just sometimes, maybe we see a little justice as well." Pat Gibson swung the cruiser into a vacant space outside the Sheriff's Department and turned to her friend. Outside, the sun rose on a new day. "We'll work this any way you say. But honestly, I don't think anyone is going work too hard to find the person. I think that the best we can hope is that whoever this was closed the account and he can go on with his life. Maybe now, he can find a little peace."