Posted by critmk on May 19, 2003 at 06:58:11:
To view the PICTURES that go with this novel, open a new window to my briefcase at
http://photos.yahoo.com/bc/critmk/lst?.dir=/Sisters+novel&.view=t
Sisters
a story by critmk
Chapter 17: Extended Family Massacre Further Extended
I gazed at my three latest victims for a long moment of pleasure, reloaded both guns and headed for the hallway. The vibration of my phone in my thigh pocket stopped me abruptly. Only one person had the number .
“I told you never to call me at the office, Barbara.”
“But Jackie,” she cooed. “You know I take such an intimate interest in your work. What are you doing, right now?”
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
“Mmmmmm…” her hum dissolved in a deep, throaty laugh.
“Seriously, Barbara, this is a cell phone conversation. It’s out in the ether, anyone could hear it.”
“You mean it’s not encrypted?”
“Encrypted? Jesus, Barbara – who am I? James Bond?”
She laughed again. “Now there’s a game we’ll have to play – Bond and the Bad Girl Spy.”
“As pleasant as all this is, I don’t have the time.”
“OK, OK. I just want a progress report. You’re in, right?”
“Oh yes. Well in.”
“How many?”
“A dozen or so.”
“Young or old.”
“Younger, mostly.”
“Be sure about the oldest one – if she goes, any escapees will be too cowed to pursue things further.”
“Watch your mouth, Barbara. People could be listening.”
“OK, OK. So where are you? What’s your plan?”
“I started in the attic and I’m working my way down. I’m on the second floor, now. Just cleaned up the east bedroom – it’s triple messy, if you get my drift. I’m going west one room at a time. I like to be methodical. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, I’m just here, all alone, naked, looking at pictures of them, trying to imagine it – in every detail.”
“You’re an evil woman, Barbara. It was bad luck falling for you.”
I shut off the phone. Something didn’t feel right about that conversation, but I didn’t have the luxury of thinking it over. I had to move before someone discovered a body and lit up the police switchboard.
Two voices, one old, one young and colored by a German accent, filtered through the locked door of the next bedroom. The young voice giggled musically, shyly; the other was smooth and seductive.
According to the list and notes Barbara had given me, “Gramma” Sylvia was the senior among David Laufer’s many ex-wives, owner of the Lake Geneva house and the instigator of the move to block Barbara’s plans.
She gave employment each summer to two or three young girls through an overseas exchange program. From what I was hearing through the door, the old girl was working on something more intimate than cultural exchange with the German kid.
The door was locked, but that was no deterrent. I picked it and entered a small foyer to the master bedroom suite of the old mansion. Through a partially opened door, I saw a sweet honey-blond teen, about 5’5”, nude and standing against the wall near the bed. A maid’s outfit, like the one worn by the Japanese woman I’d killed in the kitchen, lay rumpled at her feet.
The girl liked jewelry. She wore four rings, two on each hand, a bracelet on the right wrist, and pooka and charm necklaces. She was more cute than beautiful, with close-set, gray-green eyes, a high forehead, prominent nose and smallish mouth with pale lips. She wore no make-up; her face had the beginnings of a sunburn.
On the nearby bed, kneeling and beckoning, was Sylvia. She was in her 60s, buxom and plump and well-preserved. She was sexy, in a formidable, battle-axe sort of way. Her gray hair was silky and lightly permed to wing away from her face – a ‘do from the ‘80s.
The kid had just finished thinking it over. She dropped her shy demeanor and spat out a point-blank question: “How much?”
She never got an answer and never knew what hit her. The German girl died before I could explain that it was a 9mm slug dead center between her cute little 34Bs.[servant18.jpg goes here.]
It left a neat, red-black hole the size of a nickel in her sternum and a hole just that size in the white wall behind her. She streaked the wall red as she dropped quickly straight down, dead before her butt bumped audibly on the carpet and quivered her tits. Her legs opened to 45 degrees as she fell. Her beringed hands slapped to rest on her thighs, to frame her waxed twat. A single stream of dark red flowed in a straight line from wound to navel to slit and stained the white carpet between her legs. The girl was staring at me, but not seeing me.
Old Sylvia was getting an eyeful, though. Her eyes met mine as I trained the gun on her.
“Oh my god,” she gasped. “It’s Barbara, isn’t it?”
I nodded.
“I never thought she’d go this far. Look, you’re a professional, this is about money. As my late almost-girlfriend put it – how much?”
“Actually, Sylvia, it’s more about love – and passion, obsession, perversity, lust, insanity. This isn’t just a job – after I kill you, I’m going to rape you.”
[sylvia61.jpg goes here.]
The bullet in her right tit, just outside of the small round of pink at its center, stifled the scream rising in her throat. Blood streamed over her fingers as she clutched the bullet wound. I shot her a little lower on the right breast. She knelt there a moment, grabbing at her tits and watching the liquid life pulse from her body. She slumped to her left, her chest heaving with her effort to breathe.
[sylvia61A.jpg goes here.]
I grabbed her by the ankles and roughly pulled her pussy to the edge of the bed. She was wide and wet from her anticipation of sex with the young girl. I slid in easily and fucked her hard. Her bloody tits bounced with the impact of my thrusting. Sylvia had just enough life in her to struggle a bit, which made it all the more exciting. At my moment of climax, I jammed the barrel of my silenced Glock into the hollow of her throat and fired.
Mallory, 42, was the youngest of David Laufer’s ex-wives. She and her daughter, Alice, 19, had decided to stay in that night. They had just taken a walk on the grounds and were casually and comfortably dressed, Mallory in jeans and a pink pullover, her daughter in shorts and a violet-and-white baseball-type shirt.
They sat side by side on a sofa, idly watching a game show as I crept in, with both the Glock and the Uzi drawn. I put the former against the back of the daughter’s neck and the 9mm against her mom’s temple.
“Don’t move or make a sound,” I said, in the most menacing voice I could muster.
They froze, then rose and stepped to the open part of the room, as instructed.
“Show me your tits.”
They hesitated. I poked a gun barrel into each of the daughter’s nipples, which were poking attractively through the thin shirt.
“You can show me your tits or have them blown off.”
The lifted their shirts to a sight to behold. Mom’s 34Cs were wonderfully firm and set off by the white triangles where a bikini top had covered them. She was a redhead, with that auburn skin tone I had always found attractive. Her nipples were hard as pebbles. Her areole were small and intensely pink.
The brunette daughter followed suit. Her tits were huge and stretched so firm it appeared they might burst. They looked all the larger jutting from her tanned, slender frame and overhanging her flat belly. The perfect roundness, of the breasts themselves and the perfect-circle areole, made her chest look Barbie-doll artificial. But if this perfection was the result of surgery, it was the best ever. There wasn’t a scar on those tits – yet.
I decided to kill the mother first. I ordered Alice to her knees.
“Now zip down, ladies. That’s far enough. Mallory, come a little closer.”
She edged toward me, warily.
“How do you know my name?”
“My employer gave me a dossier.”
“Dossier? On me? Why?”
[mallory42.jpg goes here]
“Just so I’d know the priorities. It’s rather more important to kill you than to kill, say, Alice. My employer wants all of you dead, but she wants some of you more dead than others. You’re No. 3 on the list – congratulations.”
She grunted and doubled over as I stabbed her hard in the belly with my 8-inch black steel commando knife. I yanked it out, and blood coursed into her open jeans and out of her mouth. Mallory face-planted into the carpet then fell onto her side, writhing and gurgling.
[aliceknees19.jpg goes here.]
Alice started to scream, and I couldn’t have that. I threw the knife, which chunked into her body just below her deep, beautiful navel. She was swaying on her knees and close to toppling when I grabbed her by her long straight hair to keep her up. The young girl shrieked when I pulled the blade from her gut. Her shorts were turning red and blood was running down her thighs.
I held her firmly around the shoulders with my left arm and with my right stabbed her hard in the chest, again and again. After eight plunges, those fabulous tits were sliced up and bloody and Alice was dead as a rag doll. I let her drop. Her back landed on her spiky ankle-strap sandals. I left the knife embedded in the inside arc of her left tit.
The knifing had left me intensely aroused, but the young one was too bloody to screw. I gave her mother a kick. Her head lolled limply as she rolled from her side to her back. She had died while I was killing her daughter. Her crotch and mouth were bloody, but her tits were nice and clean. I rubbed my dick against them – the hard little nipples felt wonderful against it – until I unleashed a stream of thick, white cum across her chest.
I felt thoroughly sated and was ready to make quick work of anyone in the third bedroom on the second floor. But what I saw there stopped me in my tracks.
A girl was in the room, alright -- a beautiful thing, maybe 21, naked and spread on the bed. Everything about her was elegant – her placid features, smooth skin, thick auburn hair, perfectly trimmed pubic triangle, and luscious, pink rose of a pussy.
The only problem was, she was already dead. Blood had oozed between the spread fingers of her right hand, which was clamped on her exquisite but no doubt bullet-pocked right breast. She’d been finished with a shot dead center of her forehead. The killing wound left a black, bloodless nickel-sized hole there.[dedbed21.jpg goes here.]
Hours later, all this made sense to me, especially in the light of my odd phone exchange with Barbara. Of course she had felt me out for my location and plan in order to set me up. Another killer was in the building, and he or she wasn’t there just to give me a hand with the massacre. The rival was almost certainly in the room with me, hoping to capitalize on my surprise at finding the dead girl.
“Surprise” is too mild a word for that moment – “stunned” is more like it. I could not process the information. I stood and dumbly stared at the corpse for a long moment, and that almost got me killed.
Survival instinct took over just in time. I turned to see the closet door open and a feminine arm reach from the darkness. At the end of it was a silenced Glock exactly like mine, aimed at me.