Temperature Rising (A Novella) - 9. Chapter 9

Harold was out cold for a couple of hours. The assailant-slash-kidnapper fed him some knockout meds. He coughed up the rum used to push the pills down his throat. Some of the liquor even spilled into his nose, making the mucous lining in the sinuses swell up and bleed. Unconsciously, his body struggled to take in the much-needed oxygen as his respiratory system threatened to fail him. Fortunately, he had a strong heart or else he would have gone under cardiac arrest.

 

"Time to wake up, Detective," a voice buzzed in his ear. At the same time, a stinging and irritating aroma wafted in his already tortured sinuses. It was the rousing stench of ammonia.

His whole body jerked only to find out that he was tautly bound to a chair.

He coughed some more and soon mucous, with a mixture blood, dribbled down his nostrils.

"Tsk tsk, tsk," the voice said, "Let me get that for you."

Harold retracted, seeing the hand as a threat, as it reached for his face to wipe off the mess he made.

 

"Relax, Detective," the voice said, "I'm not going to hurt you."

 

Harold allowed the stranger to act on this gesture of good will. The hand was clearly that of a woman's, with long and neat manicured nails, adoring soft-curved fingers. The voice was different, though. It was that of a man.

 

"Nothing serious," the stranger said, pertaining to the injury. "Just a little nose bleed, is all."

 

"You must stop this," Harold said. "You have to let me go. I know some people. They can help you. It's not too late," he added.

 

"Just who do you think you are," the stranger said, voice booming.

 

"Mark, please...you need help," Harold said, pleading.

 

"Do not call me that," the stranger said, looming over Harold, blocking the light.

 

"I know everything Mark. This is not the first time. I've known many people like you."

 

"I said," the stranger said, whipping a backhand across Harold's face. "Don't fucking call me that."

 

Harold's face recoiled from the impact. Now, his mouth was bleeding.

 

"Shit, look what you made me do," the stranger said. He knelt in front of Harold once again and cleaned him up. Harold remained quiet, waiting for the right time to talk again.

 

"Look, you're going to have to trust me on this. They will be looking for me. It is only a matter of time before they'll find me--and you. They won't be forgiving as I am. They surely will kill you," Harold said.

 

"What do you know about forgiving?" the stranger said.

 

"Mark-I mean, Marcus...they won't understand. They don't know anything."

 

"That's right, they don't. They never DID know anything. Even if they did, they pretended not to know. They're as full of shit as those bastards," Marcus said.

 

"I'm not. Please believe me, I'm not."

 

 

"Then, am I?" Marcus said, standing up again. He backed out into the light. He was wearing a sequinned red pencil-cut gown. The bust area bulging, clearly faked. His face uncoloured and showed signs of distress. His hair was cascading brown strands that dangled down his broad shoulders.

 

"Am I," Marcus said, as if suddenly focused by a spotlight, the overhead lamp haloed him in soft yellow illumination. "Am I full of shit?" he added, as he pulled off the wig.

 

"Look and tell me what you see?"

 

"I see..."Harold began, panting, apparently still recovering from the blow, "...a very sick kid, who needs help," he added.

 

"No," Marcus said, his face only inches from Harold's, "You see perfection, you see a woman in a man's body..." he added, voice in a soft whisper. His eyes focused on Harold's lips. "You see revenge," he said, kissing Harold on the mouth.

 

Harold did not rebel. He let Marcus' lips merge with his, knowing that every action leads to a desired reaction. His acceptance from this subtle sexual onslaught will prove helpful in repelling Marcus' hostile action in the future. But, he was wrong.

 

As Marcus withdrew from him, he showed no signs of disgust and aversion. He hoped that Marcus would understand that he wasn't against him. Yet Marcus showed no signs of indulgence, perhaps because he had other plans.

 

"Marcus...please...before it's too late," Harold pleaded, his final attempt to sway him.

 

"It already is," Marcus said, "It's too late for me," he said, sighing.

 

"That's not true, Marcus..." he said, as if to cut Marcus' desperate descent.

 

"Why do you keep calling me Marcus?"

 

Harold, taken aback by Marcus' sudden explosion, gulped hard. All along, he was directing every effort of a standoff at the wrong track. He found himself unable to swallow. He was afraid.

 

"My brother was weak. He could not do anything for me. He was simply a coward, unable to do what is right," Marcus said, turning his back.

 

Harold, despite the dryness of his throat, spoke up in confidence. He took his time, trying to comprehend what was going on. He had to be careful because he was no longer helping. Any wrong suggestion or coercion in his part could mean the end of him.

 

He closed his eyes, breathed in deep and sighed. "Christina..." he said, firmly.

 

At first, it seemed that Marcus was not responding. But, when he slowly turned back around, Harold knew he just hit the spot.

 

"He was the one who called me Chloe," Marcus began, "Nobody called me by that name. Nobody knew. It was our secret. Do you know what that means, Detective...the name Chloe?" he added.

 

Harold only blinked.

 

"It meant ‘the one with flowers in her hair'. I used to call him my princely brother. Imagine that...my princely brother. I used to believe that," Marcus said, giving a slight chuckle.

 

"We promised we'd take care of each other. There was no one else," Marcus said, mimicking a voice that more or less what Chloe would have sounded.

 

Harold opened his mouth to talk but closed it almost immediately. He treaded carefully. He is dealing with a less ordinary mind.

 

"Marcus..." he finally began, "I'm sure...was a good person..." he added, slowly.

 

Marcus looked at the floor and froze. He began to chuckle, shoulders jerking up and down, to indicate a silent laughter.

 

"You act like you know everything," Marcus said under his breath. His laughter was a bit audible now. "You think you can psyche me, is that it?" he said, in a full-blown cackle.

 

Harold remained unperturbed, unaffected by Marcus' mockery. He could not afford to lose his cool. He needed to establish a serious emotional connection that was very genuine- or at least seemed genuine.

 

"Then help me out, Christina..."Harold said, "Help me understand," he continued.

 

Marcus froze again. His shoulders bulged and stiffened. He was angry.

 

"There is nothing to understand, Detective," he said furiously. Spittle shot out of his mouth and landed on Harold's face. Harold remained unshaken.

 

"I don't believe that, Christina," he told him, sternly. "I just don't believe that."

 

"You are a pompous fucking old man," Marcus said. His cracked smile was only inches from Harold's face.

 

"Very well..." Marcus said, standing straight up, "If you really want to help me Detective, then you'd have to go through what I have gone through," he added.

 

"What do you mean by that, Christina?" Harold said. His voice quavered.

 

Marcus didn't respond. He turned around and took something from the table behind him. Harold couldn't make it out. He feared for the worst. Was it a knife?

 

"Jesus, what are you going to do, Christina?" Harold said, frantically. He began to squirm in his seat trying to loosen his binds.

 

"Chloe...call me Chloe, Detective," Marcus said, dangling two sets of hand cuffs in front of him.

 

Marcus went behind the chair and snapped the handcuffs around Harold's wrist. Harold winced as each cuff clicked into place. Another set of cuffs went around Harold's ankles.

 

"This is crazy Chloe. This will never get you anywhere," Harold said.

 

"I doubt that," Marcus said. He began to cut through the industrial tape that wound around Harold's torso, using a cutter.

 

"Don't move..." Marcus said, "...or else this will get messy," he added, cutting through the tape around his wrists and ankles.

 

Marcus pushed Harold off the chair. He groaned as he landed on the floor. Harold tried to curl up into a ball but his cuffed hands around his back made this close to impossible.

 

Marcus pushed Harold's entire weight, with a gentle shove of his foot, so that he was on his back.

 

"Do you feel it?" Marcus asked him.

 

Harold didn't understand what he was talking about.

 

Marcus started unhooking the straps of his gown off his shoulders. His masculine shoulders shone in the light. It seemed as though Marcus was peeling off his skin, revealing what was inside. His skin was as soft as a woman's. The gown went down his chest and snagged around his waist. Gently, he began pulling it down his thighs until he was able to step out of it.

 

Muscularity rippled down his entire body. It seemed impossible how the dress was able to hide his identity and form. He stood naked in his panties. The bulge in his crotch revealed a little too much about the girth of his organ.

 

Marcus inserted the four fingers of his right hand inside his underwear. He rubbed himself, making his cock swell even more.

 

He took his hand out and reached for Harold's face. Harold jerked his head away but Marcus touched him anyway. The fingers ran across his cheek and lips. Harold hinted a bit of musky odour as the fingers traced the outline of his mouth.

 

Marcus leaned over and kissed him gently like a woman. Harold returned his kiss calmly. When Marcus inched his face away, Harold was sure he could see Marcus' authentic and gentle smile gleaming down on him. The very smile he saw on the photographs.

 

But soon the face imploded in anger, the smile turned crooked and the eyes sharpened. Before he knew it, Marcus gave him a backhand swipe sending over unto his back. He was seeing stars. Marcus could really hit hard.

 

Marcus knelt beside him. His hands were exploring the fullness of his adult buttocks. Marcus slapped it playfully making Harold yelp.

 

Click, click, click...went the precision cutter as the lock travelled along the metal grooves. Harold felt exposed, his skin crawling, expecting the first sting of pain as the blade made its first cut. Instead, he felt nothing except the gentle tug of fabric that covered the crack of his ass. Marcus was cutting through Harold's trousers, right along the crease of his rectum, through his underwear.

 

Soon the cool basement air started seeping through the incision made on the rear end of his pants. Marcus traced his tongue along the crack and Harold gritted his teeth as the warmth of Marcus' mouth transferred to his skin. He moaned under his breath as the licking appendage darted inside, flicking and tasting him.

 

"It's time for you to know, Harold." Marcus said, in a very hypnotic voice.

 

Marcus jumped unto him, his crotch pounding on his exposed bottom. Harold gasped as his lungs emptied out from his lungs, squeezed under Marcus' weight. Holding him by the shoulders, Marcus leaned forward, driving his member slowly inside Harold's rectum.

 

Harold opened his mouth to utter a silent cry. He never had anything like that inside him before. As the cock slid further in, Harold's cry began to sound audible until it was almost guttural. His mind was exploding from the overwhelming sensations.

 

As Marcus drove himself to the hilt, Harold no longer withheld his screams. With every pulsing motion Marcus offered him, he coupled with his own screams of agony and pleasure. Marcus pulled on his shoulders making Harold arch his back, and his ass served up for easier access. The basement reverberated with Harold's squeals and yelps making it seem deeper than it actually was.

 

Marcus bit down on Harold's shoulder as he neared release. Harold winced at the introduction of this new sensation. He never thought how something that could induce pain seemed so pleasurable, given the instances.

 

Tightening himself up, Marcus rammed his last, spilling every drop of him inside Harold. Harold shuddered as well, climaxing. He dropped on the ground, heaving for air.

 

Harold felt droplets of Marcus's sweat, dripping on his exposed cheek, as Marcus bent towards his ear for a whisper.

 

"Do you see now, Harold?" he said, softly. His lips made butterfly kisses on Harold's earlobe.

 

Harold winced as Marcus withdrew himself from him. Marcus was still incredibly hard and he was very raw. Stinging sensations lined his rectum. It felt like a hot iron just ran through it.

 

Marcus stood up and looked at his beat cock. He wrapped his fingers around it and wiped it clean.

 

"What a mess?" Marcus said, amused.

Marcus unlocked the cuffs. Harold wasn't going anywhere--at least, not for long.

Silence ensued after. Harold watched his captor get dressed, slowly pulling the straps over his shoulders like a dainty woman would. He felt disgust but not towards the man that just violated him. Was this how those victims of rape felt all along? He told them he understood but he didn't. Did he understand now?

 

Marcus made him understand.

 

Suddenly, as if a closed eye roused from sleep, Harold began to see things-foggy at first but becoming clearer and clearer as he started to stir. He felt bursting open but he kept to himself. He needed to use what he knew to his advantage without drawing too much attention.

 

He spoke then, "Is that what they did to your sister?"

 

Marcus began to laugh. The laughter seemed muffled.

 

"They did more than that detective. Oh let me tell you, they did more than that," Marcus said.

 

"This does not solve anything. If you let me go, then I can help you."

 

"You watch too much movies, detective. Things don't always end like the movies. Guys like you are always revered as gods, able to do anything, solve anything-well fuck that," Marcus said, voice becoming louder and louder as he made his point.

 

"Guys like us? You mean cops?"

 

"We had them. God we had them. But because we couldn't prove anything, they let them go. Those killers, who ravaged Christina, were still out there,"

 

"So you went out to get them."

 

"Not all of them. The fuckers hid behind rat-assed big men politicians, hid behind the very people who locked them up. So I had to do it. I had to kill them one by one, make it look like your everyday crime. I was good at it. Those bastards were half-dead anyway-junkies. I just made their trip to hell much faster."

 

"Taking the law into your own hands? Do you think that'll get you anywhere?" Harold said, his voice redeeming the confidence it once had.

 

"It did, detective. I was down to my last. His name is Max-Maximilian Fedurst, the name makes me sick to the bone. He was the last one. When he looked at me in the studio, I marked him like wolf eyeing the prey," Marcus said, his hand clenching.

 

"The studio? The one you said was down at that parking lot? So what was he then? A ‘diddle' actor or something?" Harold said.

 

"He's a pig fucker, that's what he is. That motherfucker fucks fags for a living and rapes little girls when he's not, as if he can't get anymore abominable."

 

"Then we can get him. We'll put him behind bars for good."

 

"Shut up, you motherfucking asshole. You just don't get it. I was so close to tearing that fucker's guts out. Then you came along and stuck your dick up my business. That is why I cannot let you go. I cannot risk it. You know too much." Marcus said.

 

Harold sensed the urgency in Marcus' voice. He knew there was no getting through him. He had to break the barrier that prevented him from getting through Harold. All those years studying criminal psychology and he couldn't psyche this one miserable fucked up whacko. What a joke.

 

"Listen to me," he began, "the studio that you said, it does not exist. This is all in your head Marcus. Maximilian Fredurst is dead. The police shot him down during a drug-bust. You're sick Marcus. I saw your file. Dr. Kellar Everett-does that ring a bell? She's your doctor. They took you in-remember the hospital? Do you remember Los Angeles Psychiatry and Mental Institute? They took you in after you sister died. You're very sick Marcus. Please..."

 

Harold could not continue. His voice masked behind a loud explosion which seemed to emanate everywhere in the room. Pain seared through his leg. He saw his own blood fountain right in front of him. Marcus shot him. It was happening again. Images of his last encounter with a bullet, which almost took his life, flashed before him. Funny but it seemed like this one hurt a lot more than it did before. And was he shot at the same spot?

 

Harold reeled, screaming like a stuck pig. His screams brought goose bumps on Marcus' skin. He never heard anyone scream like that. Gutted alive--that's what it sounded like.

 

"Shut up," Marcus screamed. He was panic-stricken. Tears began rolling down his cheeks. He held his head as he began to feel disoriented. His right hand was clutching Harold's pistol. "Shut up," he screamed some more.

 

Harold felt faint. His throat felt like sandpaper was filing down on it. His body was shutting down and all he wanted was just go to sleep.

 

"Shit," Marcus said, "See what you made me do?"

 

Harold fought the urgency to close his eyes. He took in air, more than he needed, just so he could remain conscious.

 

"They killed her, detective. They took her life and dumped her like road kill. What did she ever do to deserve that?" Marcus' face reddened as he spoke. His eyes were welling up with tears.

 

"Answer me motherfucker."

 

Harold, gasping and heaving for breath, swallowed hard and yielded to moist basement ground. The pain lessened a bit.

 

"I found her," Marcus said, toning his voice down. "Imagine what I had to go through. Do you know how a lifeless body feels like? Do you know how it feels to be carrying your dead sister in your arms?"

 

Marcus fell on his knees, arms outstretched as if pretending to be carrying an invisible load. Harold jerked, fearing Marcus might accidentally pull the trigger of the gun in his hand.

 

"She felt..." Marcus began, "...so light. I placed her on the tub, took her soiled clothes and washed away all the mud on her body until she looked like herself again. I placed her on the bed and waited patiently, waiting to hear her voice and call my name."

 

"She must've been very sick. It was already morning and she was still sleeping. I figured I had better take her to the hospital. So I wrapped her with a blanket so she won't freeze to death. We had no car and so I decided to carry her once again and maybe hitch-hike or take a bus...she likes that-she always liked taking the bus."

 

"She was getting heavier by the minute and we still had long ways (sic) to go," Marcus said, in his childish voice. "I had to stop and sit down. It was too early in West Virginia, the highway was empty and so we waited by the roadside. I told her that it will be a while, that it's going to be all right. Soon the doctors would take care of her. It was probably the flu, no big deal."

 

"She didn't even smile, detective. She didn't even smile," Marcus said, his face torn. "Oh god, Christina...what have they done to you?" Marcus said, sobbing and placing the heel of his palms on his eyes.

 

Harold decided to remain silent. What would he say then that would make a difference?

 

Marcus broke down into a full sob but then immediately composed himself, wiping his tear-ridden cheeks with the back of his hand.

 

"There was nothing I could do. She was dead. I found a place for her to sleep in. It was an empty dumpster behind a vulcanizing shop. I laid her there...kissed her before I left. Then she said to me that she would come home. She said ‘I'll come home. I'll always come home'. I don't know what she meant by that but I waited for her that night. And guess what?" Marcus said, smiling. "She came home. Can you believe that? She came home. She actually came home."

 

Harold struggled to sit. He leaned against the chair. He was still bleeding and his leg was numb.

 

Harold caught site of the wigs set up behind Marcus. If he didn't know better, he would say Marcus kept all of them just for keeps but he didn't, that was problem. Long hair, short hair, manes, boy-cut lesbian-looking hair, fag hair-you name it, all in array. Christina is here. She was here all along.

 

"You don't have to do this anymore, Marcus. You've done enough," he said, softly. He winced as pain started to pierce him once again. "Christina...Chloe would've understood."

 

"No," Marcus burst, "Chloe UNDERSTANDS," he added, emphasizing the word. That's what's wrong with you cops-you presume too much, enough to get you in trouble."

 

"Listen to me, Marcus. Chloe is dead. This isn't you."

 

"Oh it's me alright. Every bit of it is me."

 

"Here," Harold said. His voice was hollow and almost ghost-like. His bloodied hand reached inside his breast vest pocket and took out the newspaper clipping he got earlier.

 

Marcus went rigid.

 

"Where'd you get that?"

 

"You know damn well where I got it, Marcus."

 

Marcus raised the pistol. His head-his thoughts, they were turning against him. It was only his feelings that were with him-after all, that is where Chloe was. Everything inside his heart, it was Chloe's. Slowly, it was as if everything was unravelling. The grip of Chloe's death upon him was beginning to loosen. Suddenly he was afraid-afraid he'd lose his sister again.

 

"Stop it," he said, backing off-utterly confused.

 

"It's not too late Marcus. Somebody could've heard the shot. The police will be here any moment. I'll take care of them-they'll never have to take you away," Harold said. He was slowly regaining his calm. The pain was fading but his trousers felt wet. Apparently, the bleeding had not stopped. That would explain his light-headedness.

 

"Am I really that gullible, Detective?" Harold said. A sudden stillness laced his words.

 

It deafened Harold. The words were like tiny sirens ringing endlessly inside his ears. They were warning sounds like bomb sirens.

 

"No, Marcus..."

 

Marcus raised the pistol and aimed it at his own head. Harold closed his eyes, waiting for the gunshot. His heart leapt when a loud siren blast resonated behind him-outside the house. A police siren? Thank God for that.

 

Harold opened his eyes and saw blue and red lights flooding the entire basement. A police car was outside above them. The lights seeped through the window slot adjoining the ceiling and the basement wall.

 

Marcus, cut-short of his impending suicide, recovered some of his tenacity and started pulling the trigger.

 

"Marcus, don't do it..." Harold said, trying to delay the situation. He can hear footsteps up above. There could only be one police officer, responding to a domestic disturbance. But no matter, one would be enough.

 

To Marcus, the lights-the police car lights signalled the end. There was nothing left. In order for him to claim victory, he has to subject himself to defeat. At least, in his death, the waking of injustice would snuff out the pretentions of those who left him and his sister alone-to die. He had been dead a long time. Outside, the blaring of the sirens were overwhelming. There could be several cars with a dozen police officers waiting to bring him down.

 

To Marcus, there were many of them.

 

Marcus turned around and faced the basement door, waiting for them. He would be ready. Funny but he feels happy, finally things will end.

 

The door blew inwards. Flashlights blanketed his field of vision. He could only make out shadows. How many?

 

He retained his composure. Before pulling the trigger finally, he said, "Do you see now," to them. He wanted Harold to see his face when the bullet tears his brains out. But when he turned to look, he wasn't there. Harold-Detective Harold Garson wasn't there.

 

"Put down the gun, sir," a female voice said. There was only one officer.

 

Marcus pulled the trigger anyway.

 

Outside, the blast resonated loudly that the neighbourhood dogs barked and the crickets went silent. People literally jumped out of their beds and looked at the window to see who died.

 

That night, it wasn't Mark Dellasandro nor was it Detective Harold Garson that died. The female officer shot Marcus on the shoulder. It wasn't her intention to shoot but the shot was blind. It didn't care if it killed or saved him. That night, a bullet saved him.

 

To the female officer, there was also one-the only one. Marcus was alone in that basement. There was no one else.

 

Marcus was alone.