Click (A Tale Of Revenge)

By Winslow Swan

After seven years, the only witness to the brutal rape and murder of his sister, finally talks. His father now can identify the men who tore his family apart. The special room has been waiting for a long time. The loudest sound in the world is when he clicks on the light that illuminates the terror within.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Winslow Swan
• Release date: Jan 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310333330

Winslow Swan

Born and raised in Atlanta, Ga, I grew up surrounded by mystery and suspense, in book form. I also grew up listening not only to the great old radio horror shows but also heard the original run of the CBS Radio Mystery Theater. I contribute them for my imagination of horror and suspense. My favorite authors at the time were of course Stephen King, Dean Koontz, and Edgar Allen Poe. I now live in the North Georgia mountains where I am currently producing (with my best friend Crimson McKenzie) writing, directing, and appearing in a full cast audio series of horror, mystery, and suspense (with a few laughs along the way) titled "Doorway To Nightmare" on YouTube. (Check the channel out. 43 episodes with many more to come) Writing can, at times, become arduous and trying to find the quiet time to actually get my thoughts and stories down can sometimes be quite straining. However, I continue to do what I can to trouble the dreams of the reader.I find myself to be one of the few who have fulfilled all of their dreams. I have worked in both radio and television, as an actor and a writer, and have also appeared on stage. I have made two films (which shall both never see the light of day) and am now concentrating on a writing as a career.

Book preview

CLICK

(a tale of revenge)

Winslow Swan

Published by Winslow Swan

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 by Winslow Swan

Other Works by this Author

Toppling Over The Edge

The Convincer

Feather Brained

Available at www.smashwords.com/profile/view/winslowswan

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

All names and firms depicted in this novel have been completely fabricated by the author’s own imagination. Any similarity to persons, places, or locations is purely coincidental and should not be inferred.

Table Of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Epilogue

Preview of The Convincer

Chapter One

Click

The harsh lights overhead sputtered once, and then brightly illuminated the small concrete room that Stan Freeling occupied. He was not sure exactly how he had come to be in that desolate place, since his last conscious thought had been that he had to stop by the grocery store to pick up some steaks for the small dinner party that his wife had planned.

He had been thinking about the day’s events that had transpired in the homicide department and the many cases that he had on his desk, still not solved, when he had walked through the empty garage of the police department towards his own private vehicle. All at once, his private world vanished in a puff of smoke, ceasing to exist. He then found himself in this small room that resembled the holding cells that he had put so many suspects into. White concrete blocks made up the walls, and with quite extraordinary accuracy, he surmised the room to be about 10 feet by 12, with a 10 foot high ceiling.

What had concerned him the most was the condition that he found himself in when the lights clicked on, blinding him momentarily.

He had been completely stripped naked. He had been strapped down to what he thought might be a hospital gurney. The first time that the lights had come on, that had been the first thing to go through his mind, that he was in some sort of accident and was currently lying in a triage room, waiting for some attractive young nurse to come and let him know that he had been in a close call but that everything would be fine.

The nurse had never come.

By his own estimation, he guessed that he had been lying in the room for three days.

Most of the time he had been left in total darkness, without a single thread of light coming into the room from either the bottom of a door or a window, so there had been no way of telling time. It could have been three hours, three minutes, or three years for all that Stan knew. He did recall the first time that he had opened his eyes to…to…well, nothingness. It was as if he had not opened them at all, but he could feel the muscles of his eyelids blinking rapidly, trying to focus on anything that would give him a reference. He had strained to try to pierce the black void, to distinguish a shape, any shape that he could identify with.

It was then that he began to scream.

No one had answered him.

At first he thought that perhaps he was blind from the accident. Perhaps there had been another terrorist attack and the target had been the very police station in which he worked. The word ‘bomb’ dangled in front of his mind’s eye, toying with him. Would he now be blind for the rest of his life? Maybe he had been paralyzed, the reason for the straps, but he quickly discovered that he could at least move his fingers and toes. But sightless? How would Caroline manage?

Would she even want to manage?

As a detective, his pay had been quite adequate for the two of them to live on and fairly comfortably for a middle class working stiff. There had been no children in the ten years that they had been together, at least not yet, and they had continued to try. Now that he was blind…

His supplications were instantly cut off when he had heard the sound for the first time.

Click

There had been no other sound in the room except for his steady breathing and the ever present pounding in his chest from his heart. When he had heard the switch of the light being turned on and the harsh florescent lights over his body flicker into life, he was not sure if he was grateful for the sudden knowledge that he could see, or fearful of what the person who had turned on the lights would now tell him.

Stan found himself completely incapacitated, tied very securely to the metal gurney. Even his head had been fastened to some sort of a halo, making it impossible to turn in any direction. He could only sense the presence of another person in the room with him, standing directly behind him. He tried to look further up to see the person, but the restraints prevented any movement, and he could only stare at the lights and ceiling.

Are you a doctor? Stan asked in that whisper that people tend to use while in a hospital.

There had been no answer.

Is there anyone there?

No answer.

Please, can you at least tell me where I am? Are you the doctor?

Only oppressive silence answered him.

Goddammit, answer me!

For the first time since regaining consciousness, fear, true and absolute, had begun to permeate throughout Stan’s very being. He was certain that the person that he could feel standing behind him, above his head, could hear him. Why the hell wouldn’t he answer him?

Look, I’m sorry, please, just let me see you, Stan said, his voice trying to remain calm.

It was several moments later when Stan saw the man. He had walked around the gurney and was now looking down at him. Stan sighed with great relief when he saw that the person was dressed in the olive green garb of a surgeon, what they called ‘scrubs’, complete with the surgical mask and brightly colored headdress.

It had to be a hospital.

Tell me, how bad is it, doc?

The doctor never said a word to the bound man. He simply raised a pair of rusted plier’s so that Stan could see them clearly. They could have come from Stan’s very own tool box, he thought to himself, as he felt the doctor rather timidly grab his scrotum and began to massage the soft flesh just below his penis.

Oh, Christ, Stan thought, was I hit with shrapnel from the bomb?

Another thought crossed his mind. What the hell was the plier’s for? Shouldn’t they be shiny and bright, completely sterile and not rusted over?

The scream had begun low in his chest and echoed around the chamber, as the ‘doctor’, rather skillfully, took the plier’s and began to squeeze one of Stan’s testicles, applying more and more pressure to the scrotum. Pain that Stan had never before experienced, shot through every fiber of his body, as Stan heard the slight popping noise, feeling the ball explode inside his body.

He was still screaming when the doctor quietly left the room and switched off the lights.

Stan could only guess how long he had been in that room, but he welcomed the darkness now. It had suddenly become his best friend in the entire mad world, for now he dreaded the sound of the light switch flicking on, hearing that dreadful sound that would only mean one thing.

The ‘doctor’ was coming into the room.

Stan had been cut, sliced, burned, and maimed. Four fingers and seven toes had been sliced off without hesitation. He had been anally raped by an oversized dildo repeatedly, causing massive bleeding to his internal organs. One eye had been deftly plucked from its socket.

Now, the ‘doctor’ had returned.

Stan had begun to cry as soon as the lights came on. He was a fucking cop! Things like this did not happen to cops, especially homicide detectives. During the lapses of torture, he had begun to mentally go over every case that he had ever worked on, trying to match a face to the cold eyes that stared at him from the surgical mask, the only part of the ‘doctor’ that he could clearly see.

Why? Stan managed to croak out.

For the first time, the ‘doctor’s’ face seem to smile behind the mask, his eyes crinkling the muscles. It was as if the man had been pleased that the question had finally been asked by his captive.

When no answer had been forthcoming, Stan yelled at the top of his lungs, I have to know why, you fucking maniac!

The doctor bent down, close to Stan’s ear. In a hollow whisper that barely made it through the mask, the doctor said, Mary Pierce.

Realization flooded Stan’s one good eye. He knew exactly who this crazed individual was, and why he was insane. He now knew why he had been subjected to the torture of the past, how many days and nights he had no way of knowing, but at least he knew the horrifying reason. He also knew that his life had come to a rather uneventful end.

Damn you, it wasn’t me! I swear I never touched her! Stan yelled out, knowing also that it would not do any good. He had seen the madness in the eye’s that held so much hatred for him.

The ‘doctor’ left the room momentarily, only to return wheeling a small cart and parking it next to the gurney. Surgical instruments had been neatly laid out and gleamed bright metallic in the light.

I can give you the others, just let me go, Stan pleaded.

The doctor picked up a scalpel in his gloved hand, carefully examining the thin, fine blade.

Please, don’t do this, Stan whined, tears falling from the one eye.

Stan’s body shook and seized violently as he felt the sharp edge of the scalpel cut along his chest and down to his abdomen. His brain knew exactly what was happening, as he had seen enough autopsies performed in the course of his investigations.

His last thought in the world as his heart ceased to beat, was that he was indeed sorry for his many sins, including the one that drove a man to commit murder.

The ‘doctor’ had finally finished dismembering the body of Stan Freeling, depositing the remains in the 55 gallon plastic drum of acid. It would take several days for everything to dissolve into a viscous pulp, but that was of no consequence.

He had spent almost three hours cleaning up the blood from the floor and the walls. The surgical scrubs and mask were deposited in the special furnace that supplied heat to the old house where they were now a pile of ashes.

He was tired from the exertions and found himself famished. He closed the door to the small room, cleverly hidden behind a brick wall in the basement. To complete the illusion, a board of tools hung on the false wall. Slowly, he climbed the stairs up to the kitchen of the house proper. As he entered the room, he saw David sitting at the table, a bowl of cereal in front of him.

Hey there, that looks pretty good, the ‘doctor’ said.

Silence.

The ‘doctor’ quietly walked to the cupboard and removed a bowl for himself. Pouring the cereal and milk, he added a spoonful of sugar from the bowl on the table before sitting down opposite his son.

David was quite handsome. At the age of 17, he had shoulder length black hair, hazel eyes, and a slight moustache that accented his face. Standing six feet two inches and weighing 185 pounds, he could have easily been on the football team, basketball team, or perhaps the wrestling team.

Instead, David had not left the house or said a single word in seven years.

The ‘doctor’ spooned some of the cereal into his mouth, not really tasting the bits of corn. He only looked at his son, realizing that David had become more like a robot with every passing day. He watched as the boy finished his cereal, his eyes not seeing anything, and just like every day, David would put the dishes into the sink, slowly walk into the living room, (and wasn’t that a contradiction in terms), turn on the weather channel, and stare at the television for hours on end, looking at nothing and perhaps comprehending little of what was being broadcast.

Only two more to go son, that’s all, the ‘doctor’ said softly.

He looked for something in the face of his teenaged son, but there had been no hint of an emotion, only the silent dead like stare of his eyes that once held dreams and aspirations of a sweet ten year old boy. His world had been snatched away from him in a mindless act of violence.

Only two more, the ‘doctor’ thought again.

Only two.

****

Chapter Two

The dream was always the same. He would wake up screaming every time.

The girl was sixteen, although her looks belied her age. Long blond curls fell just below her shoulders. Her skin was that of a soft tan complexion and blemish free. Her body had developed into a young woman’s only two years ago, her breasts full and curvaceous. She walked everywhere as if she were on a runway, and could very well become a top model.

She was also extremely frightened.

She remembered how she had come to be in the predicament that she now found herself in. She cursed herself for insisting that her and her baby brother take the short cut home from school through the alleyway. How many times had her father warned her about the six block long street that ran between two high rise buildings where the harbingers of the vilest of human nature made their shelter from the streets?

But dad, it cuts off twenty minutes, she had argued so many countless times. She had used all the old cliché’s that teenagers as far back as Cain and Abel had tried on their parents. I’m older now, I’m very careful, I can take care of myself, etc., etc…

And that is just my point! her father had told her, his voice an octave above where it usually was. It is the fact that you are older that I don’t want you taking the damn alleyway! Whether you like to think it or not, you are much more vulnerable.

Reluctantly, she had acquiesced to her father’s wishes, letting him take the well-deserved sigh of parental relief.

Except today.

Why do we have to hurry home, sis? her brother had asked her as they walked from the school yard.

Just because, that’s why, she had answered tersely.

And none of your business, she had thought to herself.

She loved her baby brother the moment that her mother had brought him home from the hospital. The tiny bundle never made a whimper, and when her mother had let her hold him, gently cradling the tiny form in her arms, she silently vowed to God that she would protect him no matter what may come.

She again cursed herself for breaking that solemn promise.

The only reason that she had wanted to take the alleyway and get home in such a hurry was to be by the phone when Allen Foster called her. Possibly, according to the reigning girls of the high school, the most gorgeous, cutest man ever to walk the earth, and he had asked her for her phone number during lunch. She didn’t even think he knew that she existed. Captains of the football team always dated the head cheerleaders, not a sophomore whose only claim to high school fame was playing the lead role of Maria in the drama clubs production of West Side Story. Allen had seen the play and had told her that he had been smitten and could he possibly call and talk to her around 4 that afternoon.

It was now fifteen minutes before the phone would ring, and she still wasn’t home.

We’re not supposed to go in there, her brother had said in a superior tone.

I need to get home, she had yelled.

She looked down at her brother, saw the hurt in his young eyes and immediately regretted the harsh tone of her voice. Tears had begun to form, and she knelt down beside him so that she could wipe them away.

Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell. Listen, I need to be home by 4 to take a very important phone call, and this is the only way that we will make it, she said, trying to reason with him.

But daddy says that’s where the bad people live, he whined, pointing down the street toward the alley.

She looked at him with her clear blue eyes, her face growing serious as she lowered her voice and said, Aren’t I here with you?

He nodded.

Have I ever let anything happen to you?

He shook his head no.

Will I ever let anything happen to you?

A small grin appeared and he shook his head again.

Ok, then, let’s go, she said, standing up and holding her hand out to him.

He still hesitated.

Rolling her eyes, she said, Think of it as an adventure.

They entered the alleyway, hand in hand.

The white van had appeared out of nowhere. Two men in black masks had grabbed the kids and dragged them inside, forcing them onto the floor. It had been so quick that the immediate danger had not even registered until after the van door slammed. That was when they began to kick and scream, only to be gagged and tied within a matter of moments.

Every nightmare that she had ever had had now come to life in brilliant Technicolor. Her brother sobbed loudly and she had tried to comfort him with her eyes, but he was having none of it. His eyes seem to say to her those four dreadful words, I told you so.

Not much longer, the van had stopped and she had found herself on a concrete floor, her hands shackled behind her back, completely incapacitated. Her brother had also been tied to a wooden chair against a far wall. No other furniture appeared to be in the room which looked very much like a cellar, save for the filthy mattress that lay next to her.

Well, judge, who goes first? one of the three men had said.

She looked at them all, trying to remember as much as she could. Three men of varying sizes, the one who had spoken had a gruff and gravelly voice that sounded like fingernails scraping a chalkboard. All three of them wore black ski masks, and all she could see of their features were the cruelness of the eyes.

The one that was addressed as ‘judge’ yelled at gravelly voice, Christ, if you go first, she’ll be ruined for the rest of us!

What about the boy? the third man said, his voice that of a tenor with a slight squeak.

Fuck ‘em, gravelly voice said, or just go ahead and cut him now.

The boy shook uncontrollably as he took in the whole scene. His eyes were rimmed with angry red marks from the tears that continued to pour. He wanted to be home and away from this place.

Please, the girl had whispered, don’t hurt him; he’s only ten years old.

This only brought a chorus of laughter from the three maniacs.

Please, she tried again, straining to hold back the tears and the fear that was welling up inside of her, I’ll do whatever you want, just don’t hurt him.

Gravelly voice walked over to the boy, thumbing toward the girl as he asked, That your sister, kid?

The boy could only shake his head yes.

The man in the mask with the chalkboard voice slowly walked over to the girl, his lips spreading into an evil smile.

Anything, huh? That is exactly what we had in mind.

But everything had gone wrong. Blood had suddenly appeared everywhere, spewing over everything. The walls, the ceiling, the one dangling light bulb, had all become a crimson red as the dream plunged into a full-fledged nightmare. He had heard ‘gravelly’ ask him if he wanted a little head and began laughing.

It was always at this point that the man would wake up screaming.

His wife would always hold him, consoling him, asking what the dream had been about, and never really buying his quick answer of not being able to remember any details. She had never pressed him to try and remember, only holding him like a small child, guarding him against the darkness and the evil that lay therein. After thirty years of marriage, she had been the dutiful wife and had never asked a question about the dream.

Eventually, he would simply get out of bed, walk to the master bathroom and try to shower away the memory of that fateful night so many years ago. He knew that it would be useless to try and exorcise the memory and the dream with hot water. After seven years, the whole thing stayed with him like the proverbial albatross hanging around his neck.

He would of course tell himself afterwards that it had not been his fault at all. He had only been in the room when the girl had died.

He also knew that these supplications were completely useless. He had been there, watching the blood spill from the open wound, watching the body spasm as life poured from it, and in the eyes of the law, that would be enough to convict him.

As he toweled himself dry, he looked into the full length mirror that hung on the door.

He grimaced at the reflection.

Judge James Cochran was a murderer.

Worse than that, he was a murderer that was still on the loose, never having been caught.

And he knew that the dream would come back in all of its bloody glory.

****

Chapter Three

Good morning, your honor.

Barbara Jennings smiled brightly as she extended the salutation to Judge James Cochran (Jim to his friends and associates, Judge Cochran inside the courtroom), something that she had done for the past ten years. She had been a mainstay at the Judicial Complex for at least a quarter of a century, and her good nature and cheerful disposition had been quite infectious to the other employees. When she had agreed to the position of private secretary to the judge, there had been quite a few envious eyes cast his way.

Always early to work and usually the last one to leave the office, she had a strong work ethic that made the office run efficiently and smoothly. There had never been a file misplaced, never a disposition gone un-typed, never a letter left for the next day, she had been the perfect legal secretary.

And at the age of fifty-three, she was a very attractive woman, something that had not gone unnoticed by the Judge. Her body was fit, due to her work out three times a week at the local gym. She had put many a young girl to shame at the beach or local swimming pool, causing young men to swoon and older men to question the validity of their own marriage. Her hair was always coifed to perfection, cut shoulder length and brown, she would sometimes wear it in a pony-tail which seemed to