The Feeding Path

The Feeding Path

By Michelle Ridlon

Copyright © 2014 Michelle Ridlon Mattila

All rights reserved.

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No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Michelle Ridlon

Visit my blog at http://michelle-ridlon.blogspot.com

Visit my Facebook at www.facebook.com/michelle.Ridlon

Visit me on Twitter at https://twitter.com/michelle.ridlon

Email me at mmattila38@yahoo.com

Dedication

To my Mom, the most peculiar and interesting woman I have ever known. I love you for teaching me to question every rule, every norm, and never to turn down an adventure. I owe my lunacy to you… thank you.

To Italian men all around the world… keep doing what you do—nobody does it better.

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

Epilogue

CHAPTER ONE

Drink it all, he said as he sat on a tree stump in the secluded, quiet forest and cleaned underneath his fingernails with a knife.

This interfered with his usual method, but it was the most powerful form of communication he had. Tori needed to know he was coming, and she needed to hear it in their own, special language taught to them by a particularly sadistic man. When she saw the body of this third victim, she would hear the message loud and clear—a not so gentle reminder from days of old.

He moved the knife to the next nail and listened to the woman vomit.

Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it? he asked as the nameless woman continued to gag convulsively.

The mild breeze ruffled through his black hair, and he could hear the leaves whisper from their branches. It was a beautiful late August day in Minnesota, and he enjoyed the serenity of the woods as the woman continued throwing up.

If this bitch puked on him, he would stab her in the throat and have to start over with someone else. Keeping that in mind, he waited for the retching to stop, evaluating her as he waited.

You’re a distant second. Your face isn’t right. It’s fat, and it should be more heart shaped. How can you stand it? It’s appalling. If you’re going to have auburn hair like her then you need to have a heart-shaped face like her, as well. Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you? Are you stupid?

Hearing only a few lingering dry heaves, he watched as she gasped for air. She was naked and kneeling on the sparse grass and pine needles, hugging her stomach with both of her arms, rocking herself as she wept. Saying nothing, he pointed with his knife at the wooden spoon lying next to her on the ground. He had already told her what to do with it and what would happen if she didn’t. Uninterested, he returned to his nails, nibbling on a cuticle as she began her task. Her feet turned magenta and swelled immediately.

A blue jay hopped on the ground near his feet and a soft smile touched his lips. It was Tori’s favorite bird. He ignored the woman’s slobbery, phlegm-filled crying and continued talking and informing as he calmly watched the bird move about.

You’re an inferior substitute, and you need to know that. It’s important that you know you aren’t taking her place. You aren’t good enough, and I’m offended that you even look like her. You have her hair and her body but a horribly misshapen face. It’s nothing like hers… nothing. Even if it was, no one can take her place, least of all a bar slut. That, in case you’re confused, would be you. Now let’s talk about her. Say her name.

A puff of wind skittered dead leaves across the ground, as he waited. He watched the blue jay take flight, his jaw clenching and his green eyes flashing with a seething warning. Slowly, he turned his gaze toward the woman—the woman that was not saying Tori’s name.

She didn’t hear him. She was busy crying and begging, asking why, as snot dripped from her nose and into her mouth. Dirty gray rivers of mascara-laden tears coursed down her cheeks, and her drooping breasts jiggled as she cried.

Striding over to her, he fisted a handful of her auburn hair and wrenched her head back. Struggling and mewling, she tried to turn away, but he cranked her head back further. Bending over until his breath was in her ear, he whispered through gritted teeth.

The name…

Crying harder, she gasped out the name in a high pitched, hysterical babble. He threw her head forward in disgust, releasing her hair at the same time. A subtle shudder coursed through him. She was hard to look at, let alone touch. Before he was ready for them, the waves of revulsion for these Second Placers sometimes threatened to overwhelm him.

She was saying Tori’s name, albeit slobbery. It was the only reason she still breathed and her ability to say the name prolonged her life though only for a brief time. He needed to hear her name. Sometimes, they lost their minds and couldn’t say Tori’s name. Then he would lose his temper. How hard could it be? Just say the damn name…

He stood over her and watched, resenting this additional, artificial step in his otherwise delicious hobby. This was tedious and nauseating to get through. The spoons, milk, and cigars were an irritant, and he waited impatiently for her to finish. He would only go through this disruptive bullshit for Tori—only for Tori.

Now, the other foot and clear it up with the name. I can barely understand you for Christ’s sake, he said coldly.

The name became clearer as she started on the other foot, and he returned to the tree stump. With deep breaths, he began to relax and a smile crept across his lips as he listened, blinking slowly. Her name wrapped around him like a warm mist, touching and comforting him everywhere. Fresh images of Tori flashed through his mind. He had seen her. Hiding, he’d taken pictures of her using a zoom lens and the images had turned out stunning. She hadn’t changed at all. Still moving with a dancer’s grace, she captivated him even more than he remembered. It had been paralyzing to be that close to her again. Her hair was still long. All of these years and she had kept her hair long. His eyes had gotten teary when he first saw it and remembered the hundreds of times he’d brushed it for her. Beautiful… she was so beautiful.

The dog had floored him. Seeing that goddamn white dog with her instantly pissed him off. He forgave her though. He understood and forgave her. She could be trying, but his patience for her knew no bounds and so, he had let it slide.

Frowning, he saw the images drifting away. He turned to the woman on the ground. She had stopped and was just sitting there, blubbering and holding her knees to her chest while she rocked. Burning rage ignited him as he glared at her. He knew he was going to end up yelling, and there were few things he hated more. His eyes blazed as he stood up for the second time.

The crying woman hugged her body into a trembling fetal ball as he approached, but he kicked her hard in the back, sending her sprawling. When she fell forward, he moved with blurry speed and stabbed her deeply in the buttock, twisting the knife the instant he felt the blade slam into the back of her pelvic bone. As he jerked the knife out, blood poured from her like uncorked wine.

Her screams were deafening in the isolated woods and all of the birds fell silent. Grabbing her long hair, he dragged her up into a sitting position and yanked her head back farther than it was ever supposed to go. He put the point of the butterfly knife directly beneath her jaw and barely pushed. The blade’s needle-sharp point brought forth a flow of blood that snaked its way down her throat and between her breasts.

"… the spoon and the name!" he bellowed into her ear, infuriated.

Now, she remembered. Feverishly, she resumed beating her foot with the heavy wooden spoon, crying out Tori’s name in a seamless mantra. Blood poured from her stabbed buttock and pooled beneath her before seeping into the ground. He glared at her and waited, incensed by the interruption and fully expecting her incompetence to reappear. After a while, he reluctantly retreated to the tree stump, still gritting his teeth.

Goddamn, he hated stupid people.

Glowering at her, he sat down and listened to her say the name clearly, without mush-mouthing it. He tried to focus as he started from the beginning again; the images drifting into his mind, never far away to begin with. He turned away from the Second Placer and thought about how fair Tori’s skin appeared in the photos. It glowed with purity.

She was clean. He had protected her and guarded her against his filth for such a long time. He had kept her clean and stayed away, allowing her to bloom in his absence while he wilted in hers.

He eyed the woman on the ground. She was as repugnant as all the others and it felt vile and blasphemous to substitute someone of her ilk for Tori. He tolerated them because they helped him get by when his burn and urgency for Tori became unbearable. One replaced the next with no trace of sentiment in him; all of them delegated to a polluted and disposable group of revolting inferiors. They were not her… ergo; they were nothing.

Bowing his head gradually, he could feel the weight of her images threatening to collapse him, the desire, and adoration excruciating to bear. He parted his lips, unable to catch his breath and his chin rested against his chest, too weak to lift it any higher.

The sensations grew and spread, catching fire inside of him, and he embraced the burn that began to explode, the images of Tori starting to change. Her long beautiful hair became clumpy and stiff with blood while sticking to her face. Her small, delicate frame transformed into a brutalized and broken corpse, the stab wounds innumerable. She would wilt and suffer. She would feel her purity ripped out of her. He was coming back for her. They would be together again, and she needed to know that.

Adrenaline surged through him as he stood up and gripped the knife, his knuckles turning white. He scowled at the woman who had the audacity to look like Tori, and he felt the consuming, dizzying hatred overwhelm him.

The inadequate Second Placer became her as she screamed, and his ecstasy began. Blood spilled from her as his mind transformed the offensive substitute into the one he really sought, the one he had always sought… Tori.

It was over too soon; his needs barely met. They could never last as long as he wanted them to and when the frenzy started, he was unable to slow it. It consumed him and fueled everything in him into a screaming, savage bliss of kaleidoscope images.

Pushing her limp and lifeless body away from him and panting heavily, he tried to hold onto the images. He was still in that place where reality bends. In that foggy, surreal place, he could see her, feel her—the faulty surrogate becoming her. He wanted to stay there and be with Tori forever. The fog stayed with him as he breathed in and smelled the blood, imagining it was how she would smell.

The dazed fogginess in his mind started to clear, and he saw a dull, disappointing reality. He didn’t want it to be over; he didn’t want to see that Tori had gone again and left only a useless and dead Second Placer in her wake. The emptiness and ache were waiting for him in her absence, his inability to escape them woven into the very fabric of who he was.

The last of the delicious, sensual fog had gone. Closing his knife, now slippery and wet, he tossed it on the ground and hitched up his pants. Glancing down, he saw his death-soaked body, the blood covering him from his chest to his knees turning cold and sticky. Absently buttoning his fly in the quiet woods, he whispered her name, his pain painting the word into a soft plea.

He had to find a way to make it last. To have it end when he was holding her, to hear the silence she left behind and feel her blood on him grow cold—it would be like dying.

He would take her more savagely than he had ever taken anyone before. Through it all, he would embrace and caress her as he murmured his forgiveness to her for leaving him. When her blood drained from her body, he would whisper to her how much he needed her, missed her, and loved her. He would tell her of his devotion to her and soothe her fears, so she didn’t die feeling unloved and all alone.

# # #

We have to tell him, Joe said.

They were crouched on the ground gazing at the third murder victim in a month. It could have been her twin, and Vicky turned away, nodding in agreement.

He needs to know who Adam is, Joe persisted.

Vicky nodded again. She heard him the first time.

You tell him. It’s humiliating, and I don’t want to talk about it, she said, standing up and walking away.

The three victims were a message to her and she heard it, loud and clear. So did Joe. All the victims had auburn hair, fair skin, and a slight build, their resemblance to Vicky, unnerving. The abuses the victims endured were things her father had done to her as a child. She shuddered while remembering drinking the spoiled milk until she vomited, having her feet beaten with a wooden spoon, and lit cigars being pressed into her neck. She survived other, worse, atrocities that the victims’ bodies did not reflect. Perhaps she could keep the details of those humiliations to herself.

Joe pushed himself to his feet tiredly. It had been weeks since he slept through the night. His angst woke him in the dark, and he would pull Vicky closer to him, needing reassurance she was safe. He lost focus if she was out of his sight, a feeling of cold dread settling into the pit of his stomach. Her carrying a gun no longer calmed his fears.

When he saw the unusual abuse inflicted on the first victim, he turned to Vicky, but she had refused to meet his gaze. When he saw the second victim, Joe’s flexibility was gone. She was a target and the murderer knew about her past. Joe had talked to her about it, and Vicky pled with him not to tell Nate, clinging to the ridiculous idea that she and the victims enduring the same abuse was a coincidence. Unable to be loyal to Vicky and Nate at the same time, he told his partner nothing.

This victim changed everything and trumped Vicky’s privacy. Joe approached Nate. He would give Nate enough information to do his job and nothing more. Vicky hid her past and the secrets she had were deep and many. The less Nate knew, the better.

Nate was talking to a uniform, and the young officer looked like a child when standing next to the powerful and large black agent. Joe’s partner was six-five and heavily into bodybuilding, dwarfing almost everyone he stood by. When the uniform walked away, Joe stepped into his spot. Nate read his partner’s face and then reached into his pocket for a piece of gum, his eyes turning cold, and his white smile just as chilly.

"That’s a serious look you’ve got hanging from your face, Joe. You and Vicky must have had a meeting and decided to include me in your communications. Nice… I’m flattered. I was hoping it would be before the fourth body dropped, and here you are on the third. I knew you wouldn’t let me down, buddy."

Nate squinted at the bright sun coming over the horizon as he peeled the wrapper off the gum and folded it into his mouth. His jaw muscles popped as he chewed, and Joe waited for Nate to voice his anger before he bothered getting into the details about the case. He had to take the hit for excluding his partner before they could move forward.

"Did you really think I didn’t know? Muscle memory, my friend—it’s great for learning karate, not so great for hiding past abuse. The last three bodies, as soon as Vicky sees them, she starts limping like her feet hurt. She sees the puke and touches her chest as if she has heartburn. Today she saw the burns on this one’s neck, and she reached for her own neck. I’d say that’s a match on a three out of three scale. I’m that good. I’m so good in fact, I’m seriously considering doing this for a living. Of course that means I’d have to find a partner," Nate said with disgust and contempt.

"And, please, don’t forget to tell me how all three victims look just like her. I might not have noticed so be sure to add that to your briefing that’s two bodies behind schedule. Oh, and if you get a second, can you show me how to use my gun again? The trigger-thingy baffles me, and I can never remember which end goes boom. It would be tragic if I found the person hunting Vicky and shot at him, only to assassinate myself. That would leave you and Vicky to muck through this by yourselves, without my input or contributions. How would you cope?"

Nate glared at Joe, searching for additional digs to hurl at him.

Joe asked, Are you done?

Nate chewed his gum and answered, No.

Joe nodded, waiting. Nate chewed for a moment more.

Yes.

Joe held out for the serious, heartfelt complaint that needed to be voiced before they could move on. At last, Nate sighed and spoke, sans the scorn and contempt.

I get it. I do. It’s the whole privacy-thing with her again. You two have been together for three years, and that’s an investment. I get that, too. We’ve been partners for ten years though, and I don’t appreciate being excluded from investigative details. It makes me feel shitty and unimportant. I bring valuable assets to this investigation, and you’re not doing these victims any favors by excluding me, he said, still angry but trying to let it go.

Vicky headed over to join Joe and Nate, feeling embarrassed for trying to ignore the obvious. She ran scent dogs for the bureau, but also had her doctorates in forensic psychology and another in forensic science. When she wasn’t teaching online classes for the university, the bureau used her for interrogations, profiles, and interpreting unusual evidence. She knew how criminals thought, and what their behaviors meant. She was this killer’s primary target, and she had known it from the start.

The murderer knew her and her secrets, and he wanted her to know that. He had virtually introduced himself, wanting her to know who he was, and that she was his goal.

She wished she had killed him when she had the chance.

Coming to a stop in front of the two men, she cleared her throat and submitted a humble and sincere apology for having interfered with the flow of information. As she talked, Joe and Nate listened and winced while they looked at the ground and then turned to gaze at the tree line. Watching Vicky apologize was similar to observing someone getting a root canal and it made all of them squirm uncomfortably. Subtly, they all took a breath and sighed when it was over. With the dreaded apology behind her, Vicky got down to business.

Joe thinks my brother, Adam Terrace, needs to be checked into. I took my mother’s maiden name when I was in college, she said, explaining the discrepancy.

Nate asked, hopeful about the new lead, You know where he could be?

Vicky shook her head. We haven’t spoken in twenty-five years.

Why?

Why does it matter?

Nate and Joe said nothing. They waited for her to realize she was withholding information again. It didn’t take long.

She stared at her hands for a moment and then took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. After clearing her throat, she turned to Nate with her face devoid of emotion.

We haven’t spoken because, after I killed my mother, I made it clear to Adam that if he didn’t disappear, I’d put him in the ground, too.

Joe cringed. Occasionally, she delivered words in a sledgehammer style, in particular, when it was something she didn’t want to discuss.

Turning on her heel, she left without another word. She delivered the information in one harsh blow, and her time of sharing had come to a whiplashing end. Nate gaped after her in disbelief. She slammed the door in his face after gagging up a partial piece of information that was akin to a hairball offering. He wasn’t sure he had even heard her right. In fact, he thought that he could not have heard her right. He opened his mouth to say something—demand an explanation, maybe—but she was already too far away. Empty air filled the space where she had been standing.

Nate rounded on Joe accusingly.

"How long have you known that? She killed her mother? Three bodies looking like her, the same abuse, and her brother has a twenty-five year grudge? No, that’s not pertinent to the case at all! What the fuck!" he yelled in exasperation.

Nate walked in a tight circle; his arms spread up and out, as though he were summoning rain for a drought with no end. He thought they’d only hidden her abuse, not a goddamn suspect and motive.

I knew a couple of years ago, and you had no reason to know. Now you do. There you go; you’re all caught up. The briefing’s over. We’ve got work to do.

Joe’s eyes had chilled while looking at Nate, making sure his partner knew his ferocious loyalty to Vicky was unwavering. Nate had the suspect’s name and reason for the estrangement. It was all the information he needed to work the case and anything beyond that, Joe would protect. If Nate demanded more information, there was the dismal probability that Joe’s eyes would progress from coolly impassive to a darker and more dangerous realm. Nate hated and avoided that realm as did most people who knew Joe. It was time to accept it and drop it. He had been to this desolate landscape before, and there would be no rain anytime soon.

Nate sighed, grinding on his gum with silent frustration as Joe turned around and walked away.

Reaching up, the huge black man ran his hand over his short hair several times in agitation, trying to calm down and focus on the pittance given to him to work with. Okay. She killed her mother, and she threatened to kill her brother. First and foremost, he knew it must have been justified or necessary for whatever reason.

Vicky had restraint and a lot of it. The times she had leveled people had been when they came at her physically. She had been hated by every kind of criminal there was, and caught off guard she had been attacked by two of them. One attack had been when Joe was in the room, and the suspect had punched Vicky square in the face. Nate winced as he remembered; that guy had been plunged by his throat into a realm of Joe that was goddamn near demonic. Vicky hadn’t cowered, blinked, or raised her voice and the report she’d written was as factual and emotionless as always. Nate knew Vicky; he had worked with her for years, and she was one of his closest friends. If she had killed her mother, then her mother had needed killing.

Adam Terrace was now number one on their list of one suspect and Nate was looking forward to digging in. As he headed toward the body, his pace slowed, and he could feel his neck muscles tighten.

The medical examiner had arrived.

The examiner, Darin Lund, blew past Joe and excitedly reached for Vicky, embracing her fully and making it a point to smell her hair, which set Joe’s teeth on edge. The medical examiner had a staggering number of grating habits that he brought to every crime scene like a fungal rash.

Vicky! You promised me you wouldn’t get any prettier. How am I supposed to work? he asked, burying his face in her hair and breathing deeply as he accosted her.

The examiner turned to Joe and gave him a slow once-over.

None for you, Valenti; sexist, I know, but… none for you.

The examiner, in his late thirties, was a good-looking man if a woman could ignore the hair gel, fake tan, and the whole personality misfortune. Viewed by Joe and Nate as the contagion at every crime scene, the examiner had the ability to annoy everyone around him simultaneously. It was, at times, awe-inspiring. Twice, in as many years, Joe had unsnapped his gun holster while looking the examiner in the eyes, wordlessly letting him know how perilously close he was to turning himself into a crime scene.

Before he approached the body, the doctor took out his stretcher, the black body bag already on it. The examiner started talking to no one in particular, another irksome habit, efficiently and predictably making the rash spread.

We have another one that resembles my lovely Victoria O’Connell, I see. I wonder if my friends from the bureau have noticed. Perhaps, I should tell them, maybe point it out to them. They do their best but, well… they’re agents.

Joe stuck his hands deep into his jeans' pockets and gazed at the sky, trying not to let the contagion burrow. He needed to stay within earshot to hear any actual, helpful bits of information. The examiner was intelligent, and he did give valuable information, which for Nate and Joe only made things worse.

The examiner inspected the victim’s hands. We still have slivers. The wounds from the wooden spoon have been self-inflicted again.

He peered closely at the cigar burns on the victim’s neck. Lifting the woman’s hands, he smelled them and then reached up and pried the victim’s stiff mouth open and smelled that, too.

Interesting, the cigar wounds were also self-inflicted. Her hands smell of the smoke as does her mouth. What an animal. Poor Vicky, she had to keep the cigar going herself.

That was it. Joe started walking toward the examiner, but Nate quickly cut him off, herding him over to the tree line by one arm.

Joe’s ability to spare this viral piece of shit had hit an all-time low. He had been waking in the night with horrible visions of Vicky’s body cold and covered in blood lying next to him. He would have his coffee with her every morning and his eyes would dart over her, trying to override the images from the nightmares. Twenty-four hours a day, he worried about when the killer would decide the time had come for Vicky to be on a slab. Every ounce of everything he had, he’d been putting into this case while simultaneously trying to protect her. He had exactly zero left over to restrain him from putting the examiner into his own body bag.

I’ve got it. You wait here, Nate said.

Joe, after strenuous convincing from Nate, agreed to stay at the tree line until the wretched examiner left. It was hard for Nate not to smack the doctor; he could only imagine how Joe felt.

"Goddamn, I hate that guy," Joe said through clenched teeth, already regretting his agreement to stay by the tree line.

Nate said again, I got it.

Nate left him at the tree line, pacing and seething. The examiner had been calling, christening, each of the three victims Vicky. He would lean down and talk aloud as he surveyed the damage, always referring to the victim as Vicky. When he would update the agents, he would insert her name, as well.

Well, Vicky was raped but not how you might think. No, Vicky’s rape took place by using one of her stab wounds as the orifice. It was particularly heinous because the stab wound ripped over two inches while her rape took place. The murderer was in a frenzied state when he raped her, and Vicky bled out from the multiple stab wounds while the rape occurred. Poor Vicky, she felt everything up until the end, and I'm telling you, she didn’t go fast. She lingered and was still being raped when she died.

If this miserable tool didn’t knock it off with the Vicky references, a request would have to be put in for another examiner. Nate knew this was the last time he would be able to stop Joe from bludgeoning the examiner right past rigor and on into putrefaction.

When Nate returned to the crime scene, the examiner was searching for him.

There’s nothing really new here. Vicky’s got the cigar burns added to the other, more grievous insults but other than that, I won’t know more until the autopsy.

Nate decided to save the man’s life for him.

Stepping in, far in, to the examiner’s personal space, Nate peered down from his towering height and into the M.E.’s startled eyes. He moved in closer yet until the doctor had to shuffle his feet to avoid being stepped on. The gurney was behind the increasingly nervous man, preventing any escape as Nate effectively blocked his entire view of the world, casting the alarmed doctor into a dark shadow.

Nate chewed his gum slowly, his black sunglasses covering his eyes. His face held no expression apart from a flat, unsettling calm.

It’s apparent to me, having known you for longer than one second, that you have some type of severe social retardation, Darin. I’m going to clear that up for you so concentrate, and pay attention. Do not refer to these victims as Vicky again. It is disturbing, and I am I assure you, disturbed enough already. Conjointly, if you disturb Joe one more time by calling these victims Vicky, he will come at you. He will put you down. You will not get back up. Do you understand that, Darin? After your body parts have been rearranged for you, you may feel the need to tell a supervisor, but I'll save you the time. No one here saw anything.

Nate chewed slowly, his face stony and vacant.

No one saw anything at all.

Nate scrutinized the petrified doctor a moment longer. When he thought that even this asinine, contemptuous dink could understand what he was saying, he stepped back. The examiner scrambled his gurney into the wagon without saying another word and Nate watched, smirking, as the van sped away. Good times.

Vicky and Joe were standing together at the tree line, and he walked over to them.

Joe was six-three and weighed two-thirty, all of it brawny muscle earned from a weight machine he used daily to ward off job stress.