Never Coming Home

By A.R. Wise

Ten years ago two children went missing and were presumed to be victims of a satanic ritual. Police charged the antisocial brother of one of the victims with the crime, but the real culprit's still on the loose. The approaching anniversary prompts the killer to strike again, but there's a private investigator who's beginning to ask the right questions about what happened a decade earlier. The killer discovers that he's being hunted, and decides to do whatever it takes to stay hidden.
Lincoln Pierce always wanted to be a private detective, but his life didn't end up the way he expected. His daughter's debilitating disease forced him to make some questionable decisions, and he's been paying for them ever since. He's determined to make the most of a bad situation, and has started looking into a case that could change his entire career, if he doesn't get killed in the process.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A.R. Wise
• Release date: Mar 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311039934

A.R. Wise

I am a podcaster, movie and music lover, owner of the Talkingship website, and long time secret writer. I decided to sit down and force myself to finally put together a story and get it into people's hands. That happened with the release of my first novella, Deadlocked, on November 9th, 2011. For updates on my writing, news about upcoming projects, and to see a ludicrous amount of other fantastic things, head over to http://talkingship.com/wp/

Book preview

Never Coming Home

By: A.R. Wise

A Lincoln Pierce Mystery

Copyright 2015

Cover by A.R. Wise

Original photo sourced from iStockphoto.com

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this book with another person for free, that would be fine. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Arthur

He liked to make them wait. It gave them time to get scared.

He kept her in a locked room, tied to a four poster bed with a frame made of aluminum rods. She was lying on a single mattress fitted with a heavily bleached sheet. The walls of her prison were grey, with brown splotches on the wall that might be old blood. A single incandescent bulb hung from the ceiling, its abrasive white light seeming to vibrate in the nearly featureless space.

Hello? she called out while looking up at the camera in the corner. Anyone there?

She was cold. Her lips had taken on a blue tint, and Arthur wondered if she was shivering from fear or just the chill.

She was older than most of the others. Blonde and thin, with large blue eyes that might’ve been pretty except for how they bulged, a victim of how gaunt she was. Her teeth were too large for her mouth, like a corpse with receding lips. When she smiled, he cringed. He hated this one.

Arthur sat at his desk in the unfinished cellar, in front of three computer monitors, and watched the camera’s feed. The gentle hum of electronics surrounded him as the soft glow of the screens provided his only light.

The prisoner grew restless. She struggled on the bed and yelled out curses as she pulled at the ropes holding her down. If you’re going to do something, then do it already.

‘That’s good,’ he thought as he watched her. Soon he could get started. He was already wearing his surgeon’s mask and apron. The mask pressed tightly against his salt-and-pepper beard.

He anticipated the look of fear in her eyes when he finally opened the door and revealed himself, the scalpel in hand. He took out two plastic gloves from the box on his desk and saw that he was running low. He slipped the gloves on, snapping them at his wrists as he pulled them taut.

She kept screaming, and started to writhe so much that the rope chaffed her wrists. He wanted to give her more time to struggle, but the wait was excruciating. He hoped she would bloody her wrists. That would heighten his pleasure.

He perused the internet as he waited, but then he moused over to a folder labeled ‘Betty’ that was on one of his external hard drives. He let the cursor linger over the file, intent on leaving it closed. The contents were forbidden. A self-imposed ban to protect himself from his darkest side. His heart raced at the prospect of opening the file and exploring the contents. He wanted to see the pictures and articles detailing the crime that’d come to dominate his sleepless nights for nearly a decade.

The anniversary was coming up. Just a week away. Surely that warranted a peek.

No. He wouldn’t open it.

The girl screamed so loud that the speakers on his computer crackled. The camera feed took up one of his monitors, and he watched the prostitute as she writhed in her bindings. He watched her wrists, hoping to see a trickle of blood, but there wasn’t any. She wasn’t scared enough yet. She wasn’t trying hard enough to get free.

He turned down the volume on his speakers and minimized the camera feed. Now her cries were muted by the soundproof wall behind him as he stared intently at the file named, ‘Betty.’

He double-clicked the file, and the computer asked for a password. His finger trembled as it hovered over the first letter of the code. He frequently reviewed the material contained within, but never before meeting with one of the girls. That was too dangerous. He knew it was a mistake, but today he did it anyway. It felt like he was honoring the girl whose death had started it all.

He opened Betty’s file.

Seconds later, Betty Kline’s face stared out at him. It was from her yearbook, and seeing it caused his heart to flutter and his muscles to tighten.

He didn’t need to read the articles about the crime, or examine the police account, or peruse the evidence. Just the sight of Betty’s smiling visage brought it all back. He remembered everything about the day she died.

His prisoner slammed herself up and down on the bed, breaking his momentary daze. The aluminum posts clattered on the concrete, which finally earned his attention. He stood back up, retrieved the scalpel, and then walked over to the door that led to her prison.

He tried to forget Betty’s eyes, but her picture was burned into his memory. He wanted to go stare at her again. That cherubic face, with her lush, auburn hair tied back in a ponytail, and her dimpled cheeks on full display as she grinned. Those baby blue eyes. He wanted to touch her again, or smell her hair, or kiss her, or wrap his hands around her neck.

The meth addict tied to the bed would have to suffice.

What the hell? asked the prostitute when he entered, dressed in his surgeon costume. She looked more annoyed than afraid.

He showed her the scalpel, which inspired her to scream out for help before he closed the door behind him. This is going to hurt, he said in a purposefully rough and gravelly voice.

She cursed at him and twisted on the bed, fighting to get free just like he’d told her to, but she wasn’t a gifted actress. He knew she was only in it for the money, like most of the girls that came before her, but usually he was able to look past that fact and enjoy himself. Not tonight.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Betty.

I’m sorry, he said as his posture deflated. I can’t do this. Not now. I’m sorry.

She stopped struggling and looked at him with a weary expression as she asked, You sure? I’m not giving back the money.

Her wrists still weren’t bleeding. They were barely red. She wasn’t scared at all.

That’s fine. He walked over and started to undo the ropes that held her down. Go ahead and put your blindfold on and I’ll drive you back to where I picked you up.

You think you could drop me off at the corner of Broadway and Pine instead? I got some things I need to do out that way. She rubbed her wrists. The forced fear she’d exhibited moments earlier had evaporated as she stretched and then rubbed her weary muscles.

No, he said as he moved over to untie her feet. She was in a t-shirt and panties, with her thin, bruised legs exposed. Her flesh was covered in goose bumps that caused her stubble to poke out like pins that scratched him as his arm brushed against her. I’ll drop you off in the same place I picked you up.

Fine. She was annoyed with him, and pulled her foot away from his grasp after he’d untied her. She picked up her pants and wormed her way into them before grabbing the black blindfold he’d given her when he picked her up.

Their meeting had been arranged online. They didn’t know each other’s real names. She didn’t know where he lived, or anything about him other than that he had sadistic desires. He’d instructed her to be afraid when he ‘raped’ her, and that there would be choking involved. This wasn’t the sort of transaction that could be made with regular prostitutes, and required him to find willing participants in the deep web, a part of the internet most people live their entire lives without ever knowing anything about.

The anonymous drug addict in his basement was standing in the room blindfolded, waiting for him to lead her outside. Let’s go, she said, her tone weary and carrying what he assumed was an accusatory edge. She hated him. She was in control.

He looked at her neck, and his right hand twitched.

Are we going?

He shushed her, and then moved close enough that their bodies touched. She was startled by his approach, and flinched before asking, Did you change your mind or something?

He shushed her again, and then moved in for a kiss. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine there was someone else here with him, but her dry, chapped lips destroyed the illusion. He was disappointed, but decided to continue. There was no stopping this now.

He thought of Betty.

He put his hands on her throat, which she’d expected. She charged extra for choking, and he’d already paid. She squirmed and put her hands on his wrists before asking, Should I fight?

He didn’t answer before squeezing. He could feel her pulse through the gloves, but this was tantamount to sex with a condom, and he was hungry for more. He stopped, and she staggered backward, smiling as she said, That was nice.

That was the worst thing she could’ve done. It wasn’t supposed to be nice for her. That’s not what this was about. He pulled off the gloves and threw them to the corner. He needed to feel her skin against his hands as she earned her money. Next, he reached over and took off her blindfold. He wanted her to see this coming.

His attack was sudden and violent, causing his victim to fall backward onto the bed. The flimsy aluminum frame jostled and then failed. The front legs bent, and the mattress fell forward so that they were at an angle as he straddled her. He gripped her throat hard enough to cause her to involuntarily struggle. She squirmed and thrashed, but then forced herself to calm down because this is what he’d paid her for.

Just a little pain.

A couple minutes of pain bought for a few hundred dollars. These transactions happen far more frequently than the average person would ever guess.

It can take anywhere from five to twenty seconds for a person to fall unconscious from lack of blood to the brain. He knew where to place his hands to restrict blood flow through the carotid arteries. He’d done this so many times that he’d become an expert.

Most of the women he paid to choke assumed he would do it during sex, but that wasn’t what he enjoyed. He liked to cause them to pass out, and then he would masturbate over them before they regained consciousness.

This time would be different.

This time he wouldn’t let go.

The prostitute lost consciousness, but he kept his strong hands on her throat, restricting blood flow to her brain. Each second felt orgasmic as he kept his grip tight. He could feel her arteries pulse as her body desperately tried to force blood past his hands. Would he kill her? It’d been years since he’d succumbed to his demons – years since he let one die. Every second that passed brought her closer to death and him closer to a release he’d tried to pretend he didn’t crave.

He wasn’t tamed like they thought, but a wild beast feigning normalcy, craving release.

She was unconscious now, and this was the moment where he had to decide whether or not to give in. If he released her, then she would wake up shortly after blood returned to her brain. She would be groggy, but unharmed, and he could drive her back to the alley where he’d picked her up. They could go their separate ways, their transaction complete.

Or he could finish the deed.

He kept his hands over the arteries, restricting blood flow, and then gently rubbed his thumbs over her windpipe. If he wanted to kill her, there was nothing she could do to stop him. Her life was in his hands.

He felt like a child at the edge of a pool, staring into the deep end and daring himself to jump. All he had to do was act.

His heart thundered as he stared down at her. This life in his hands, waiting for his judgment.

He pressed his thumbs harder against her windpipe, and a guttural groan escaped the woman as he applied more pressure. Her visage changed as her mouth gaped wider and her tongue stuck out, rigid as he squeezed. Then came the ‘pop’ as he crushed her windpipe. She began to shake. The point of no return had come and gone, and now all that was left to do was finish the deed.

It wouldn’t be quick. Strangling a person never is. It’s a long, laborious project in which the offender must keep constant pressure to prevent oxygen from entering the victim. He also needed to keep the arteries from supplying blood to her brain, to keep her from waking up and fighting back. Her body lurched beneath him, but she never regained consciousness, and soon her lips turned blue as her eyes became bloodshot.

Next came the most satisfying part, as he felt the pulse in her neck ease, and then stop. He kept his hands wrapped around her throat for longer than needed before finally releasing her. He stood up, frightened by what he’d done, but undeniably aroused.

He backed away from the corpse, and out of the room. He looked behind him at the computer screen where Betty Kline’s smiling portrait stared back, the details about the crime that ended her life sitting there waiting for him to enjoy again.

He trembled as he sat back down at the computer, excited and fulfilled. He felt no sadness for succumbing to the demons that he’d kept hidden for so long. Instead, he began to smile as he stared at the dead whore on his basement floor.

He’d forgotten how good this felt.

Arthur walked back over to her, took off his pants, and pleasured himself while staring into the prostitute’s bloodshot eyes.

Chapter One

A handsome man in a tailored suit sat at the bar, sipping a martini so cold it frosted the glass. His large hand delicately held the stem, and when he set the drink down he placed it on the lacquered bar instead of the coaster provided.

I’m not an alcoholic, he said to the young man standing beside him. I’m just drunk all the time.

The brute in the loose-fitting, department store mockery of men’s wear wasn’t amused, and his frown barely moved as he said, The boss wants to see you, drunk or not.

Your boss, said the man at the bar, pointing with two fingers up at the man sent to retrieve him. He winked and added, Not mine.

Are you going to make this difficult?

My plans for the afternoon were pretty simple. You’re the one making things difficult.

The enforcer nodded towards the drink and said, Pay for that and let’s go.

You hear that music playing? That’s Etta James singing about watching her lover walk away with another woman, and how it hurts so bad that she’d rather go blind than see it. He winced as if the music had the power to physically hurt him. Now tell me, fellow, what could your boss possibly have to say to me that’s more important than letting her finish?

Song’s winding down.

The man at the bar smiled and conceded the point with a lackadaisical nod. He repeated the phrase as if in appreciation, Song’s winding down, but I’ve still got a martini and a cigar, and there’s always more songs.

You’re starting to get on my bad side, Mr. Pierce.

Yeah? Well then we’re on equal ground. Considering how little we like each other, maybe it’s best we go our separate ways. He looked pleased with himself as he put his fresh cut, unlit cigar in his mouth and grinned. A new song came on before he had a chance to get out his lighter. You hear that? What’d I tell you? There’s always another song. Who’s this? Otis Redding?

The man with the slicked back hair and lazy excuse for a beard reached into the inside pocket of his brown blazer and took out a thick billfold packed with cards, cash, and torn edges of paper. He took out a five dollar bill and tossed it on the bar before glaring back down at the man he’d been sent to retrieve. Let’s go.

Five dollars? What dive bar slums are you rotting away in that you’ve got it in your head a quality martini costs five dollars? And haven’t you ever heard of a tip?

The enforcer took his wallet back out and grumbled as he got a few more dollars.

Keep digging, said Mr. Pierce. When the enforcer glowered at him, he shrugged and said, Blame the economy.

After taking out five singles, the enforcer began to get angry. He threw the money on the bar and the bills splayed out and nearly fell off the opposite side before they got caught in a ring of moisture left behind by the martini.

Now let’s talk about a tip.

Give me that. It’s mine now. The angry stranger took the martini and then dumped it in the rubber mat that was meant to catch any spills the bartender made while mixing drinks. The enforcer’s knuckles were scarred, probably from beating up a hundred other men his boss had sent him to visit. You’re done, let’s go.

And here I thought this was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

You thought wrong. Now get up before I get nasty. The enforcer was young but strong, with wide shoulders and a barrel chest. He could easily best the middle-aged drunk at the bar if he needed to.

Get your money, Mr. Pierce said as he finally stood up from the stool and took out his money clip. He slid a twenty from the tightly folded bills and set it beneath the coaster. The enforcer picked up his wet dollars and shoved them back into his wallet as Mr. Pierce lit a cigar.

Lincoln walked to the entrance of the bar, where the afternoon sunshine was muted by amber glass. He puffed until the flame blackened the tip of his Churchill. Thick, pungent smoke filled the air as he waited for the other man to finish putting his money away.

What’s your name, kid?

Bentley.

You’ve got a name like Bentley and you’re wearing that mockery of a suit? Hurry up and stuff that lunch money back between the Velcro so we can get on with this. I’ve got things to do.

It’s not Velcro, said Bentley as showed Lincoln his wallet before stuffing it back into the inside pocket of his blazer, causing the front to bulge out even more than his ample chest already did.

You’ve got an A-Class name with D-Class sensibilities, kid. Take that out of there. He walked over to the young enforcer and reached in for the wallet. When Bentley resisted, Mr. Pierce hushed him and took the wallet out anyhow. See this library book you call a wallet? Don’t ever put this in your coat pocket again. It bulges out like a third tit. Put that wallet in your pants with your keys and your phone, and not in your back pocket. Look at this thing. What are these? He flicked the strips of paper poking out from the top of the wallet.

They’re receipts.

Receipts? From when? No, don’t even answer that. I don’t care. All you need is your license, a credit card, and cash. The rest of this should stay at home. If your wallet’s thicker than your phone, you’re doing it wrong. Lincoln noticed a gold chain poking out from beneath the enforcer’s collar. He pointed at it as he said, And don’t wear a necklace when you’re wearing a tie. What’s the point of that? Didn’t your mother teach you how to dress?

Bentley laughed and said, My momma always said never trust a dapper man because all they’re dressing up is their demons.

Oh I’m sorry, is your momma the new authority on being a man?

Bentley was without a comeback, and only frowned.

I didn’t think so. If you want people to take you seriously then you’ve got to be the one to start.

"Start what?

Start taking yourself seriously. Are you even listening? No one in this whole world gives a shit about you until you make them. Except maybe your momma. But do yourself a favor and stop listening when she tells you how great you are as she’s tucking you in at night.

Bentley practically growled his answer, I don’t live with my momma.

No? So it was you who picked out that dime store cologne you took a bath in?

Lincoln Pierce opened the door to Pearl Street and the sunshine momentarily blinded him. The tourists were out in force, their arms loaded with bags of knick-knacks they’d bought at the outdoor mall. The air was crisp, although it’d lost the early morning chill.

Dan warned me about you, said Bentley as he followed behind Lincoln.

What sort of warning did he give you?

That you could be a difficult person to like.

Lincoln snickered. Me? That’s rich, especially coming from someone in your line of work.

You don’t know anything about me.

You work for Daniel Barr, right? asked Lincoln. And judging by those penny loafers on your feet, you’re not concerned with impressing anyone. That means you’re either low-level and don’t know any better or you’re lazy and couldn’t care less. Mr. Barr’s not the sort of man who surrounds himself with corner hustlers, but he needs a certain amount of muscle. My guess is he threw a couple hundred bucks your way to leave a shitty job as a bouncer at a strip joint and come work for him. Then you had to dig in your closet to pull out the last thing you wore to a funeral. Am I right, or am I overestimating?

Bentley didn’t answer, but Lincoln’s comment had clearly stung. The young man walked silently beside Lincoln as they headed west. They weren’t far from their destination, but the blazing sunshine on the warm fall day still had long enough to make them uncomfortable before they reached the office. The ground floor of the office building was taken up by a restaurant and a tequila bar, and they had to walk between the two businesses to get into the wide, open lobby that looked up at the glass walls of the second floor offices. From there they passed the elevators and took the stairs up to where Mr. Barr was watching from behind the glass walls. He was short and stocky, with black hair that still looked wet from the product that kept it in place. Daniel Barr was the type of man who wore pinky rings as thick as knuckles, and tipped everyone who would accept the money. His smile was never a good indicator of what he was really thinking.

You’re late, said Mr. Barr as he held the door open for Lincoln and Bentley, smiling like always.

Considering I never wanted to see you again, I figure I’m getting here ahead of schedule.

Lincoln, that’s no way to talk to one of your oldest, dearest friends.

You’re right, said Lincoln as he walked into the office. I’ll keep that in mind the next time I see one.

What did I tell you, Bentley? asked Mr. Barr as his associate came in after Lincoln. Is he a world class asshole or what?

The office was empty except for them. It was the weekend, and the fabric-walled cubicles that stretched the length of the second floor were dark, abandoned by their employees. During a weekday this office would buzz with telephone conversations as Lincoln’s sales force plied their wares, but on this Sunday he was forced to meet with the man he’d hoped to never hear from again.

Why are you here, Dan? asked Lincoln as curls of smoke rose from his cigar.

You want to get right to business? asked Daniel as he walked over to the large conference table that preceded the cubicles. This was where the office manager would meet with the salespeople each morning to discuss goals and recent successes. There were two closed offices near the conference table, but the vast majority of the time everyone was on the phone in their open cubicles, which was referred to as the ‘salesfloor.’

I was enjoying my day before now, said Lincoln as he sat at the conference table across from Daniel. I’d like to get back to it as soon as possible.

Enjoying your day, said Daniel with a smarmy grin and a sarcastic roll of his eyes. Drinking yourself to an early grave is what you’re doing.

I’ll get there in my own time. Lincoln slid an empty coffee cup closer to him so that he had a place to flick his ashes. Let’s cut to the chase. What do you want?

Two things, said Daniel as he leaned back