F4: Return to Privation

"Kind'a strange to see the place like this, ain't it?" Joe asked. "I keep hoping someone will buy it. Eventually the price will drop to the point where it'll be irresistible to someone."

"Eventually," Michael echoed, moving into the spacious open kitchen. A broad island marked the division between kitchen and dining room. He had loved the space, even though it had just been he and Holly. On weekends, they would invite friends over and make homemade nachos on a plate so large it was nearly too big for the oven.

He touched the countertop of the island, remembering other things that had been done upon it . . . .

* * * *

She squealed and giggled as he lifted her into his arms, and returned her husband's kisses with enthusiasm. He carried her to the kitchen, settling her taut behind upon the counter of the island. Hands roamed. Her fingers pulled at the fabric of his shirt, tugging it free from the waistband of his jeans. Michael leaned back for just a moment to pull the garment over his head, and Holly took advantage of the movement to kiss her husband's chest.

Dropping the shirt to the floor, he pushed his wife back so that she lay upon the island. Lean thighs framed his body as he looked down upon her. She gazed back with a look of complete adoration and surrender.

"I can't believe how much I love you," she whispered.

Michael just smiled. He had never been much for passionate talk, which Holly knew and accepted. She had always told him he spoke more with his eyes.

He lowered his head, kissing her smooth belly, making his wife quiver and emit short, heated puffs of air. The further down her body he went, the more she squirmed. Getting on his knees between her splayed thighs, Michael settled his wife's dainty feet upon his shoulders. He gazed upon the barely-covered treasure between her legs, pressing his fingers against the silky cloth covering it. His lips left damp marks upon her thighs as he gently massaged her pussy.

"Oh, God," she groaned. "You're teasing me . . . ."

Michael smiled, enjoying the control he had over Holly's pleasure. But he had his own needs as well, and after such a day as he had endured, he needed the escape from reality his wife offered.

Pulling aside the gusset of her panties, he savored the sight of her exposed sex for a moment, admiring the pink hue of Holly's slick labia, the sensitive little bulb of her clit. He parted her lips, seeing more glistening moisture within, then eased in, slipping out his tongue for a taste.

Holly gasped, then moaned in approval as she felt her husband's tongue venturing within her tunnel. Her hands fell to the back of his head, keeping his talented mouth securely pressed against her pussy.

"God, I love it when you eat me, baby," she hissed, lifting her head. She loved the sight of his face half-hidden by her pubic mound, his nose feathering back and forth in the trimmed strip of hair above her clit.

* * * *

"Good times," Michael said with a wistful smile. He headed to the back door, opening it to find a yard dotted with sparse grass, a porch littered with dirt and dead weeds.

"Remember that barbecue?" Joe asked from behind. "You know, when Tom and Deb had a fight, and he drank himself stupid?"

Michael chuckled. "I remember he started playing grab-ass with every other woman here."

"Until you punched him."

Michael turned with a sly look. "And everyone was wondering if you were going to arrest me."

Joe made an exaggerated motion of shrugging his shoulders. "Arrest you for what? I didn't see nothin'."

Michael closed the door, turned back. His eyes roamed over the empty space, remembering the long, sturdy wooden table which could comfortably seat eight. He and Holly always sat at the end nearest the living room. At times it seemed a waste of space, to have a table so large for only the two of them. At other times, however . . . .

* * * *

Unashamedly and unabashedly nude, Holly arched her back as she settled upon the table on her hands and knees, moaning around Michael's cock. He eased back and forth gently, knowing she couldn't take the full length of him without choking. But the talents of her lips and tongue around the first few inches were enough. She sucked him with enthusiasm, pushing and pulling with her mouth, moaning even more when she slipped a hand back between her thighs to touch herself.

Michael sighed, watching the top of his wife's head as it bobbed. The sucking, slurping sounds she made turned him on, threatening to make him burst after only a few minutes.

He suddenly stopped her, taking his head in her hands. Hot breath escaped her lips, and for a moment she tried to take him back into her mouth, not wanting to stop. But Michael knelt before her, gazing into her eyes. "Turn around," he commanded gently.

Holly, face slack from passion, lips wet and inviting, grinned in arousal. "Anything you want, babe," she breathed, before giving her husband an aggressive kiss.

Michael stood, and Holly turned over and pivoted upon the table, lewdly holding her legs aloft. Her face beamed, loving the effect her nudity had upon the man she loved.

He pulled her to the edge of the table. She was at the perfect height for him, and they both moaned as he entered her. The sleek pink petals of her pussy engulfed his cock like a mouth, caressing his shaft as he pushed his length inside her. For a moment, they savored the shared joy of their union.

But then passion overcame them, and with his arms wrapped about his wife's thighs, Michael began easing in and out, steadily increasing the pace until the only thing louder than the occasional groan from the table was Holly's constant stream of mews and moans.

He could tell by the rouge of her face, the contortions of her features, the rhythmic clenching of her inner muscles that Holly was close to orgasm. She heaved and bucked, and as she cried out her release, Michael joined her, pouring forth the frustrations and troubles of his day.

* * * *

"The rest of the house is pretty much the same," Joe informed as Michael meandered back to the hallway.

Michael looked up at the landing of the front stairs above, where the bedroom, study and office lay. That had mainly been Holly's area, where she worked during the day editing manuscripts and journals for her clients. Michael's area had been below.

His eyes fell to the basement door.

Joe noticed. "I wouldn't think you'd want to go down there," he said worriedly. "You know, since that's where . . . you know . . . it happened."

Michael's tone darkened. "I'm very aware of what happened down there," he said, then reached for the door. It stuck for a moment, then came open with a loud wooden crack and a flurry of dust. Michael waved the particles away.

"Damn door hasn't been opened in fifteen years," Joe remarked. He settled a hand to his friend's shoulder. "Look. Are you sure you want to go down there?"

Michael took in a breath, considering his words. "I've never believed in the blind luck of the draw," he said. "Everything happens for a reason. Long time ago, I took a left turn instead of a right because some crazy kid driver went left and I didn't want to put up with that. I ended up stopping for gas at a place I never went to, and that's where I met Holly."

He turned to face the deputy fully. "Today, I had a job outside of town. First time in seventeen years I've had a reason to come back this way. I figure, there was a good reason I had to come back, to be reminded of this town, this house, and everything that happened here. I was intimately part of the most . . . notorious event that ever happened in this town, and no one, not you, not the husbands of those five other wives, no one, knows why it happened."

Joe frowned. "And you think you do?"

"Don't you see, Joe? I drive into town for the first time since I left, and you just happened to see me, and you just happened to have a key to the house . . . I didn't just randomly come back. It's pulling me back, making me relive it."

Michael glanced over his shoulder at the dark doorway leading down into the bowels of his former home. "Holly was the last victim," he said. "That's where it ended."

"Mike, buddy," Joe said reassuringly. "The FBI went over the basement like ticks on a dog. If there was anything to be found, they would have found it. And if they missed something . . . Christ, man, it's been seventeen years, and for over one of those years another family was living here. There's nothing down there except . . . ."

"Except what?" Michael asked pointedly. "Ghosts?"

"Ghosts, maybe. Maybe Bad mojo."

Michael frowned. "Humor me."

Joe grimaced, but nodded. He followed as Michael began down the stairs.

Every board protested, as if threatening to give way beneath the weight of the two men. Halfway down, Michael pulled the dangling cord for the light, resulting in weak, faint radiance that bathed the open space below in shifting shadows. The wooden planks covering the earthen floor were sturdier than those upon the stairs, barely making any sound as Michael set foot upon them.

He stepped to the center of the chamber, finding it cold and musty. A few thin shafts of light stabbed through the only window in the basement, which Michael had long ago covered in black paint. Remembrances of the man he had once been washed through his mind, reigniting old feelings, old passions.

A shiver traveled down his spine. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Tell me what you're thinking, buddy," Joe said cautiously. "Or tell me you wanna get the hell out of here. Tell me something."

Michael lowered his hand. His eyes fell to the far side of the room. "Holly never came down here," he said at last. "She couldn't stand the smell of the developing chemicals. This was my place, my own private space. My . . . 'man cave,' before that term became popular."

He pointed to where the deputy stood. "Right there," he said. "That's where it happened . . . ."

* * * *

Fresh from the shower, Michael stepped into the bedroom to gather his robe from where it lay at the end of the bed. He had felt a little annoyed when his wife did not join him after several minutes; now, he felt a touch of worry.

"Holly?"

Silence was the only response. Mildly perturbed, Michael headed from the room to Holly's office, then the study. His wife was in neither one.

"Holly?"

Again, no response from his wife. He went to the landing, thinking perhaps she had the TV on downstairs, or was cooking something. But the house was quiet, and growing dark as the sun floated beneath the horizon.

He cast his gaze down to the hall below. A sense of dread began to grow in his heart upon seeing the open door to the basement.

With careful, quiet steps, Michael made his way down the stairs, to the hall, then the basement door. The light shone from the single bulb above the stairs, another glowed from the standing lamp beside the black curtain of his development lab.

Standing with her back to him, holding something in her hands, was Holly. She was still naked from their lovemaking, but at the moment, the sight of the nude woman was not arousing.

One of the stairs creaked as he settled his bare foot upon it, alerting his wife to his presence.

"I was putting things away and I saw your bag," she said, voice strained. "Thought I'd just drop it off down here, just this once, then run upstairs to be with you. But you left the bag open, and I saw . . . I-I know you don't smoke, so I was curious."

She turned about slowly. Her eyes were red, features twisted in confusion and pain and wonder. "What is this?" she asked, cradling the closed, ornate oak cigar box in her hands.

* * * *

The recollection was complete. Darkness settled over Michael's heart, his soul. For long moments, he simply stood, a statue of a man.

"Mike?" Joe queried.

"Loss is a painful thing," Michael said, as if performing a soliloquy. "A powerful thing, a rush of the most essential emotions we have. Fear, anxiety, anger, depression all rolled together into a spiky little demon that feeds on your heart. Nothing feels as intense. No drug could ever compare. I had never experienced anything like it before that night, though I had come close.

"But watching it vicariously through others is not the same. Those other men, those other husbands . . . I could almost feel their pain, could almost taste the anguish. Almost. But I didn't know what it was really like, how complete such pain truly was, until it happened to me."

Joe remained quiet out of respect for his friend. After so many years, he figured, Mike had to get it all out. Maybe returning to the place where his wife had been savagely murdered, the sixth victim of the so-called "Bride Killer," was what he needed after all.

"I thought that was the end of it," Michael said. "Once I felt that, I figured it was over. And for seventeen years, it was. But it pulled me back, Joe. It wouldn't let go of me."

Joe dipped his head, feeling sorrow for his old friend. "Maybe now would be a good time to get that beer--"

"They didn't find everything, Joe," Michael interrupted suddenly, stepping toward the window.

The deputy's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

Michael reached up to the window sill, finding the wooden insert there. He lifted it away, then reached in with his fingertips to extract the dust-covered oak cigar box. "I mean," he said, turning back to face Joe. "That if you or the FBI had found this, it would have changed everything."

The furrow deepened on Joe's face as he looked upon the box. "What is it? What's in there?"

"This," Michael said with an air of reverence. "Is what Holly found that night. She had surprised me at the door wearing lingerie, and we ended up making love before I could take my bag down here, like I always did when coming home. See, I'm a creature of habit, Joe. I like to do things in order. But that night, the order was broken.

"I took a shower while Holly said she was going to straighten up before joining me. I waited a while, thinking she was just going to turn off the lights and come upstairs. But after about ten minutes or so, she still wasn't there. So I got out of the shower and looked for her."

Joe nodded, remembering the statement his friend had given when the deputies arrived that evening. "And you finally found her," he said. "Down here."

"Yes," confirmed Michael. "And she was holding this."

Joe frowned. "'Holding' . . . wait. You said she was lying on the floor--"

Michael thrust the box toward the deputy. "Open it."

Perturbed and confused, wondering what sort of strange keepsake might lie within, and what it meant for one of his closest friends, Joe took the box and opened it. His eyes narrowed as he looked over the items within. The dim light of the room was just enough to catch the glitter of the precious stones.

Six diamond rings lay pinned to the fabric in the bottom of the box, along with six pictures of the young women to whom the rings once belonged. Affixed to the inside of the lid was a leather sheath in which lay a hunting knife with a seven-inch blade.

Joe's lips parted as he began to realize the weight of the items he held. For years, the Bride Killer remained elusive, killing six women by slitting their throats and taking their wedding rings. For more than twenty years, no one knew who the Bride Killer was.

Until now.

"Oh my God," he breathed out. His hands trembled. The box fell to the floor. He looked up at Michael, hoping the realization that had just dawned upon him was somehow untrue. But Michael no longer stood before him.

The arm shot around his neck with the speed of a striking serpent, pulling Joe against the man behind him. Michael's other hand flicked the snap of the deputy's holster and withdrew the pistol. He pressed the barrel deep into the man's side, where body fat wrapped around the end of the muzzle.

"Sorry to have to do this, Joe," Michael informed with frightening calm.

"Mike, wait!" Joe cried desperately, struggling against the stronger man's hold. "We can talk about--"

"After all this time," Michael said, lips just an inch from Joe's ear. "I was finally able to tell someone my secret. I'm glad it was you."

He pulled the trigger. Then again. And again. Each report thudded in the air, muffled as it was by the deputy's pudgy flesh, then again by the painted walls. Blood splashed across the pistol and Michael's hand.

Joe winced with each shot, feeling hot pain slicing through his body. His belly burned as if ignited by a torch. Warm wetness cascaded down his side. His struggles increased, but strength was fading. The anxious realization that he was dying was the final thought of his life.

Feeling the deputy's body grow limp, Michael let the man fall to the floor. He stepped back and took a breath as the old yet familiar rush passed through him. He trembled and sighed in satisfaction. I'd almost forgotten what that felt like, he thought.

Stepping over his friend's corpse, Michael knelt and took up the box. He smiled fondly upon the six photographs of the women, each of which he had taken on the days of their weddings.

"Such tragic, terrible loss," he whispered to himself. "It's been too long since I've experienced it."

He glanced over his shoulder and back up the stairs. The doorway glowed gently in the fading light, beckoning him. Michael remembered the words of the newly-married young man from that morning:

"Yeah, then off to Aruba for a week. Now that's what I've been waiting for."

Michael looked back to the box. "One week," he mused. "Before Mrs. Luisa Perez returns from her honeymoon . . . ."