Unchained: Russell Clayton, #1

By Tim Bullins

A broken detective struggles to regain his way after the death of this wife as a serial killer threatens to destroy what little he has left.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tim Bullins
• Release date: Jan 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393155256

Tim Bullins

The author has spent the last 16 years teaching English to students in Taiwan, where he still resides.

Book preview

Chapter 1

September 26 – present

7 A.M.

A cacophony of penetrating noise shattered Russell’s drunken dreams and assaulted his throbbing head. He snatched the alarm clock from the headboard and threw it across the foot of the bed. He heard it shatter before his head fell back to the pillow. But he was awake now and his hangover was in full bloom. He reached up and touched his forehead with his right hand. It felt as if his few remaining brain cells were bouncing around, struggling to be free. Pain ripped him and his mouth tasted like cat shit. He thought back to last night and even if it couldn’t be classified as fun it had the special comfort of familiarity about it. He sat up and lit a cigarette. Leaning back on the presswood headboard of his cheap bed, he inhaled deeply and coughed almost before he felt the smoke touch his lungs. Last evening’s journey to O’Connell’s Irish Pub & Grill was a big waste of time. Somehow the idea of the Thursday night college crowd milling around, posturing, had appealed to him after all these years. He had hoped it would be a pleasant diversion from his nights alone at home. His empty house trailer had been his refuge for nearly a year now and last night was almost a welcome reprieve. Not quite, but almost.

He moved slowly, snubbing out the half-finished cigarette. Grabbing the generic pack of smokes from the nightstand, he stood up. His head spun and he wanted to fall back into bed but his bladder had other ideas. He lit another cigarette and walked the short distance to the adjoining bathroom. He inhaled gently trying to avoid the invariable coughing he had grown too familiar with after twenty years of smoking. He groaned as he missed and splattered the lid of the toilet. He adjusted his aim and managed to avoid pissing on the floor. He dropped the unfinished cigarette into the bowl, ignoring the results of his bad aim. He threw back his generic mouthwash and almost choked before he could spit it into the toilet bowl.

His morning ritual started, he walked down the narrow hallway toward the kitchen. He could hear the new automatic coffee maker, the one his brother Stephen had given him for Christmas, gurgling out coffee. The sound competing with the squeaking of the plywood under the worn carpet as he grew closer.

He took an old, cracked coffee mug from the dish rack and stood in front of the coffee maker. Russell stared at the mug trying to remember how he had cracked it but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. Then he eyed the coffee maker. He decided coffee wasn’t what he needed and reached down to the cabinet door underneath the sink. He opened it and pulled out a half-empty half gallon of vodka. Like his cigarettes and his mouthwash, it was a generic brand. Pouring two fingers into the mug, he wondered why he even continued to play this game. He knew he would reach for the vodka every time and wait until later for the coffee. Raising the mug to his mouth, he thought about some orange juice to go with the vodka this morning, but decided to skip it. He gulped down the cheap liquor. The burn felt good and well deserved going down his throat. He didn’t rank the comfort of orange juice.

Three cigarettes, four shots, and two cups of coffee later he stood in the doorway of the tool shed. It was a large enclosed metal building. More the size of a small barn than a tool shed. It had housed miscellaneous tools and yard grooming equipment for years. He had used it as a refuge when his wife or kids had gotten on his nerves. He shuddered as he thought of his family. They were gone now. He was all alone except for a yard full of chickens and the new occupants of the tool shed. He ignored the thoughts of his sons’ Dominique chickens and focused on the shed.

Russell had moved everything out. It was empty now except for two large cages and an ugly green office desk. A wire cage full of mice sat on top of the old green office desk against the north wall. Russell’s sons had once used the desk as a surface to build model cars on. He remembered the spacklings of glue and paint that were hidden by the mouse cage. His eyes clouded as he fought back the memories.

Russell looked away and rested his gaze on the large glass cage located in the center of the shed. It sat on the cold gray cement floor. Dark shadows reflected against the glass walls.

Russell flicked the light switch.

Time to wake up, he said.

Fluorescent light flooded the room. Sounds of scurrying mice echoed against the four metal walls. Russell lit another cigarette then started walking toward the glass cage. It dominated the room. Just like it had overshadowed his life. Sand rose a quarter of the way up the glass walls and a large tree branch rested awkwardly in the center of the arid terrain. An extra large dog watering bowl was positioned near one end. The three foot glass walls supported a heavy gauge wire top.

Russell remembered borrowing an acetylene torch and tank to construct the custom top. Johnny, his erstwhile mechanic, had been full of questions, but Russell had remained closed lipped. Johnny had finally given up but only after Russell slapped him a C-note. Two hours of spot welding had produced a top so heavy nothing was needed to weigh it down. Standing there, Russell looked down and watched as the brown and tan rattlesnakes inside the cage came to life. He had set up their new home before capturing them. He had known what he wanted and he had had no doubt about obtaining them. He had searched the New Mexico desert until he captured them with his bare hands a month ago. As a child he had enjoyed catching garter snakes and other harmless reptiles, but this was different. This wasn’t a childish past time. These babies here were his way out. They would help him – if he wanted.

The three snakes moved slowly toward him. Russell felt as if they were beckoning him to join them. His alcohol clouded mind struggled to recall why he had captured three instead of four. Something to do with mythology, he decided as he took a drag from his cigarette. He watched as they grew more restless. They were hungry. It was feeding time. Stamping out his cigarette, he turned and walked toward the mice cage.

The early September morning heat amplified the smell as he approached the cage. Urine and old cedar shavings had mixed to form a pungent odor. His eyes watered as he looked over the top of the cage. He would have changed their bedding long ago, but something inside of him wanted them to suffer. To suffer as he did. And to die as he deserved – alone, afraid, and in misery. Through his irritated eyes Russell watched the mice scamper about. One stopped and looked up at him as if it knew what Russell had been thinking, or maybe it just knew its time was up and was reliving its brief life in its tiny brain.

But the mouse didn’t stay still long. It moved over to feed from the half eaten loaf of dry bread Russell had thrown in the day before yesterday. Russell watched it and it looked back at him. Russell decided this was the one. It was trying to escape destiny, but it had nowhere to go. He had nowhere to go either. It was like him. Just moving along without a purpose. Both of their lives were over. Russell had been to the top of the mountain but now he was at the bottom. His destiny was closing in on him. But today Russell was fate. He was fate for this mouse and it was time for fate to act.

Russell reached down and slowly opened the door to the cage. Mice scattered. All except one. The chosen one. He was sitting back on his haunches, nibbling a dry bread crumb. It was as if he knew and accepted what was going to happen. It watched Russell’s hand move closer.

Did this mouse, this tiny creature understand him? Russell wondered. Did he know what Russell had been through? Was it trying to show Russell what he had to do?

The stoic mouse held its position as Russell’s hand moved in. It didn’t squeak or run as fate came for it. Only within a fraction of its demise did the poor creature dare to move and then it was too late. Russell had it in his grasp.

His fingers tightened around the rodent’s body and it squeaked in protest but didn’t attempt to bite him. It was merely offering a required response, Russell decided. This fella was only going through the motions for his kinsmen. Just like Russell.

But now it was ready to die.

Russell held the mouse at arm’s length and gingerly locked the cage. The alcohol from his earlier shots was making him more sensitive to each movement. The room seemed to sway as Russell walked back toward the snake terrarium, holding his hand out with the condemned mouse sniffing his fate. Russell laughed lightly as he thought about how he was walking. It was almost a police sobriety test and he doubted if he could pass one this morning. It didn’t matter. He was in charge here. This was his world.

Russell placed the condemned mouse in the cardboard box he kept near the snakes’ cage for that purpose. Almost like moving a prisoner to death row before his execution, Russell thought. Using both hands, Russell hoisted the heavy lid up four inches and leaned against it. Forcing it to slide back before lowering it on the sides. He watched as the rattlers moved toward him. He picked up the mouse by its tail and moved it over the snakes.

Their bodies intertwined beneath the dangling sacrifice. Two heads rose slowly out of the serpentine orgy as Russell hesitated. He waited. They rose higher. The mouse squealed and jerked frantically. Russell looked at the snakes then at the mouse. He noticed sweat working down his hand to his fingers and then onto the mouse’s tail as the snakes continued to rise higher. The other one had joined the first two and they were getting closer to the mouse. He had to decide. He knew about the mouse’s fate, but what about his? Sure he deserved to die. He deserved a slow and painful death. Alone. The representatives of justice were slithering closer to satisfy his need. His mind toyed with the idea of death. The pain, the suffering from a lingering slow death. The idea intrigued him. Was it meant to be today? He wasn’t sure. The snakes moved closer. The mouse began to slip down his sweat soaked fingers. Russell’s hand began to shake. At first it was only annoying, but it got worse. His hand was jerking uncontrollably. He couldn’t hang on. The mouse fell. He considered his destiny. Russell jerked his hand up. Two snakes struck for the mouse and the other for Russell’s hand. The rattler missed his hand but the other ones didn’t miss the mouse. Russell stumbled back and the lid of the cage fell on the rattler’s head, knocking it back down.

Russell clasped his right hand inside of his left and brought them, still cupped, up to his racing heart. Now both hands were shaking. He tried to control them. Sweat dripped down his face. He watched it splash on the cement floor. He smelt the cheap vodka working through his pores. He shook his head violently.

Not today he reaffirmed as he calmed down. It wasn’t his destiny today.

But he did need another drink before work.

Chapter 2

June 14, 1983

10 P.M.

A SUMMER THUNDERSTORM rocked the small white frame house in the Oklahoma town of Moore. The storm had raged for less than an hour before the slender, underwear clad boy entered the hallway. His bleached briefs glowed as he moved along. Light from the storm led him, guiding his path. The rage of the electrically charged atmosphere matched his own rage. His young body burned with emotion and uncontrollable desire, but he moved cautiously, intentional with each step. A piercing invasion of thunder stopped him. Lightning crackled and he saw his twelve year old shadow covering the large crucifix on the hall wall. A majestic Christ beaten and hung on artificial wood. The crown of thorns pressed into his skull. Droplets of bright red paint on his face. The boy didn’t need like to know how it looked. He had lived with it all of his short life. But soon dim outlines returned to the hallway. He stood there as his eyes adjusted and he could see the crucifix. Another flash of light broke the crucifix’s spell over him. He didn’t wait for his eyes to adjust before resuming his journey. He moved cautiously down the hallway, touching the wall gently along the way. He reached the staircase without incident. Stopping at the foot of the stairs, he looked to the closed door on the right side.

It was his mother’s room. Actually it belonged to both of his parents, but his truck-driving father was on the road so much, it might as well have been just his mother’s.

A light shined under her door and he faintly recognized the voice of the ten o’clock Oklahoma City newscaster on the television. He knew he should wait, but he couldn’t. He looked down at his shorts and saw the bulge. His right hand slid down and caressed it. He hadn’t planned his excitement. He couldn’t sleep in the storm. The charged air tortured him and he had just been lying on his bed listening to it when he started thinking of Jenny. She was by far the prettiest girl in any of his classes and she always sat beside him in history. Even now, standing so close to his mother’s doorway, he could see her sitting there in class if he closed his eyes. She was beautiful. Her long brown hair falling to the left of her shoulder in just that way. She was looking in front of him at Tommy. He had just passed her a note from Tommy. She had taken it from him and then ignored him like a bad rash. Her deep brown eyes smiling at Tommy. Why didn’t she look at him like that? What was wrong with him?

His right hand worked its way into his shorts. He thought back to the last day of gym class, before summer started, to the boys in the locker room. Tommy had been bragging about what he and Jenny had done behind the ag building of the junior high school. He had started getting hard listening to the details of how soft her breasts had been and how they had done it. He had ran to one of the bathroom stalls to hide his erection and didn’t come out until he heard the others leaving.

Later that day he thought of Jenny as he jacked off. Now, he was here and was going to find out what it was like to be with a girl. Sure it wouldn’t count and he couldn’t tell anyone. After all, how could his nine-year-old sister compare to Jenny. Jenny was a grown girl of thirteen and her breasts bounced when she walked. His sister’s didn’t. Hers were too small. Almost as flat as his chest, he thought. But she would have to do. He didn’t have any choice. No more hesitation. He jerked his hand free from his penis and clasped the railing with his sweaty palm. He raised his right foot above the first step. He would find out tonight. He had to find out. He wanted to know how it felt. Did it feel the way Tommy had said it did? Was it the most wonderful feeling in the world? He had to go up the stairs to find out.

He lowered his foot onto the step. His heart stopped. He held his breath. He waited. Thunder rolled across the plains outside. It made him want to turn and run but he couldn’t. He had to keep going. He placed his left foot on the second step. He shifted his weight, testing the board. The board creaked and strained. He raised his foot. Lightning crackled and lit the stairs. He turned and looked down the hall behind him. The curtains were drawn in the living room at the end of the hall, but they didn’t stop the lightning. Then he remembered what his science teacher had said about counting the spaces between lightning and thunder. He concentrated as he waited. Another roar of thunder came and went. Then the lightning followed. He counted slowly. One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three, thunder came. Another flash of light followed close behind. He counted again. One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand, he lowered his foot on three. He couldn’t hear the squeak of the board over the thunder. He knew now how he could climb the other steps without being heard. Moving in rhythm with the thunder he climbed to the top. Soon he stood at the doorway. The worn plywood barrier was more psychological than physical. A hard push against it would have ended with his hand going through the rotten sheets of pressed wood. The fake brass doorknob was tarnished with