The Evil Within Ch. 03

All Scores Are Settled

~~~~~~~~~~

Herbie, AKA, James Madison Wilkins Miller, M.D., Ph.D., was sitting in his office in Westwood, west L.A., when he reluctantly picked up his phone. Politely he asked the client he was with to excuse the interruption.

"This is Dr. Miller, may I help..."

Yvette's voice cut in, loud and on the verge of hysteria, "Herbie! I'm in trouble baby! I need help! NOW!"

Herbie glanced at his client, a young Latina trying to escape gang life, and then quietly asked, "Is anyone dead?"

"Not yet, baby! But..."

"Yvette!" Herbie cut her off, his voice was firm but gentle, "you listen to me girl and you do exactly what I tell you to do. Understand?"

There was a sob, a muttered obscenity and then weeping on the phone.

"Vette! Do you understand what I'm saying baby?!"

After a short silence Yvette said, "Yes."

"Baby, you just got to hold it together and either get home or get to the nearest hospital. Okay?"

"Yes. I'm, uh, I'm closer to home I think."

"Okay. You go there. You stay there. You don't do a god damned fuckin' thing till I get there for you girl. You understand what I'm telling you?"

"Yes. Please, Herbie, please hurry!"

"That surgeon you've been fucking; she be close to you?"

"Um, yes. Roxanne is a friend."

"Call her. Tell her to either come to you or meet you at the house. If she's any sort of friend, she'll be there for you. I'm on my way."

Yvette clicked off her phone; she wiped tears from her eyes, called Roxanne at her office, then burned rubber off the tires on her fire engine red, '67 classic Corvette all the way down Cynthia's street.

~~~~~~~~~~

"Jesus H. Christ!" Roxanne yelled as Herbie came through the front door of his home. Roxanne considered her options: try to tackle this huge, black home invader and hope to beat him to submission or try to call the police. She didn't think she'd be successful either way. The guy was way too big and moving fast with a scowl on his face. Roxanne was frightened.

Yvette was curled into a semi-fetal position on the sofa; her head nestled in Roxanne's lap. Roxanne had been stroking Yvette's hair and talking quietly, trying to be reassuring. Yvette had been virtually speechless since getting home. She sat up when she heard Roxanne yell. Yvette held out her arms for Herbie and sobbed.

Herbie knelt beside the sofa, holding Yvette as she sobbed in his arms. He looked at Roxanne, who still looked frightened, "You Roxie? Vette's bitch?"

"Uh...yes, sir?" Roxanne felt, in the pit of her stomach, that it was vitally important and altogether appropriate to answer Herbie with sir.

"I'm Herbie. Thanks for coming over. Would you mind staying for a bit? I want to talk to you."

"Not a problem."

"Thanks."

Herbie bundled Yvette into his arms and carried her to their room where he sedated her and stayed with her until the drug kicked in and she was asleep. It was when he came back down the stairs and noticed the naked woman sitting on her legs, head bowed, masturbating near the kitchen, that he realized how strange things actually were.

"Who's that?" Herbie pointed to Claire.

"Uh," for the first time since Roxanne had known the woman from Cynthia's she was uncomfortable talking about her, especially to Herbie. "Well, she was Cynthia Knowles' sex, uh, you know...slave."

Herbie stood halfway between Roxanne and Claire with his hands on his hips and an angry look on his face. "Uh huh. What's her name?"

Roxanne got quiet. "Uh, I don't know - sir."

"Sex slave," Herbie asked, contempt dripping from his voice. "Did you use her?"

Roxanne bowed her head and said, "Yes," very, very softly.

"And you don't know her fucking name?" Herbie's voice was deadly quiet and Roxanne felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. She looked over at Claire and then bowed her head again.

Roxanne kept her head bowed. "No, sir, I, uh, I never heard Cynthia use her name; we always called her it or the breeder."

"Uh huh; do you feel ashamed at this moment, by any wild chance?"

She did. Roxanne felt sick with shame although she wondered why. Tears flooded her eyes and she sobbed. Roxanne had never cried over a woman, especially a woman she was just using as a sex toy. "Yes...sir."

"But you don't have quite a fucking clue why, do you?"

"No...sir."

"Tell you what...Roxanne, is it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you leave patients to come here?"

"Yes."

"Go back and finish up office hours. If you really have any sort of feelings for Yvette you'll be back in about six hours. I want to get some things clear. If you don't give a fuck about Yvette other than her fucking you then I don't want to ever see your face again. Is that clear to you?"

"Crystalline. I will be back. I love her."

"Uh-huh. Is there any doubt in your mind that if you piss me off, I'll fuck you up beyond all recognition?"

Roxanne was trembling, something else that was new to her. "No, sir; no doubt at all," and Roxanne bolted from the house, leaving her shoes by the sofa.

~~~~~~~~~~

Around 9:30 that evening Roxanne and Stacy Masters rang the bell at Yvette's house. Yvette opened the door, clad only in a t-shirt, looking wiped out and just barely alive. She saw Roxanne and flung herself into Roxanne's arms with a sob. Roxanne held her and gently stroked Yvette's hair. Herbie appeared in the doorway, a scowl prominent on his face. Stacy Masters looked at him with wide eyes. "I'm Stacy Masters," she quickly said to Herbie. "I'm with Roxanne."

Masters had brought a file; one of the few things the police hadn't found and confiscated as evidence. They all sat around the dining room table as Masters showed them pictures from the file. Claire stood close to and behind her new mistress, Yvette, looking at the photos too.

"This, of course," Masters said as she flipped an 8 X 10 glossy photo on the table, "is Cynthia's family. The two children that...uh," Masters glanced at Yvette and then Claire.

Yvette realized Masters was waiting for a name. "Uh, Maggie; I'm going to call her Maggie." Claire's face seemed to brighten ever so slightly at having a name.

Masters continued, "These are the two children that, uh, Maggie had for Cynthia and her husband Robert. This is the nanny, Consuelo, an illegal from Belize. This is the au pair, Christina Brown, from Sioux City, Iowa. Roxanne, umm, raped the girl - or had very rough consensual sex with her, depending on whose story you believe - in the first three days after the girl arrived in L.A. and enrolled in UCLA. Somehow though the girl ended up with Cynthia," Masters looked at Roxanne but Roxanne only shrugged and didn't say anything. "Cynthia is paying for her schooling. Christina graduates next year with a degree in psychology. And of course, this is Cynthia.

"The weird thing is I can't find anything on Mr. Cynthia prior to him marrying her three years ago."

"They didn't get married and Robert's not his real name but I can't remember what it is."

Masters and everyone looked at Claire/Maggie; Roxanne felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. Yvette felt goose bumps too. In the three years Roxanne had known Claire, she had never heard Claire speak, ever. Claire would make noise during the times someone at Cynthia's house was using her but Roxanne had never heard a word. In fact, Roxanne bought Cynthia's explanation that Claire was mildly developmentally disabled and was only good for sex.

Yvette felt odd because through all she'd just been through at Cynthia's house Claire had never said a word and after Yvette got Claire home, with her emotionless face and submissive demeanor, Yvette was thinking maybe Cynthia had been telling the truth about Claire too.

But Claire's voice was first of all intelligent and matter-of-fact. It also had a spooky quality to it that was vaguely unsettling. Claire's voice was small, breathy and gravely and the combination gave it an ethereal quality.

"What?" Masters asked.

"They never got married; it's a sham. Cynthia just took him in when she bought me from his business partner. He fucks really well and he gets Cynthia a lot of pretty girls to play with before he kills them."

"Kills them?" Roxanne asked. "You mean the girls that show up on the weekends at the parties; Robert gets them and then kills them?"

"Not all of them; only three or four each month He has a quota to make but he can't draw suspicion. With the right girl he can get sixteen to twenty thousand dollars from the right buyer."

Herbie chimed in, confused, "But I thought you said he killed them. How can he be a white slaver, make that kind of money and kill them?"

"He's not a white slaver. He kills them and skins them. The skins go to buyers in Somalia and Tanzania; the meat goes to South East Asia. He's had quite a few Chinese buyers lately. I don't know who buys the brains, uterus and ovaries but he usually finds a buyer. And he sells the hair, all the pretty girls' hair, to a company back east that makes wigs for cancer patients. Ironic, in some ways, I suppose."

The others simply stared at her in disbelief.

Yvette and Masters were both about to ask how Claire knew these things when Roxanne's cell phone rang. Roxanne got up from the table to take the call; it was Cynthia's home number in the caller id.

"Roxanne, dear; are you near a TV?"

"Uh yeah, Cynthia. Why?"

"Turn on the news. As a token of my love for you, dear, I've done you a little favor. Maybe we could get together tomorrow and spend a little quality time?"

"I'd really like to Cynthia but I'm helping Yvette out. I guess you guys kinda played rough with her and she's a little shell shocked," Roxanne said, not wanting to reveal what was happening at the moment in Yvette's dining room.

"Oh, Roxanne, leave poor Yvette. She's nothing but a whore, a cheap whore at that, like the other provincial bitches who live back east. I'm reticent to admit my failures but I misjudged her. I really need you, Rox. Come see me tomorrow; make love to me."

Oh My GOD! Roxanne's mind screamed when she realized Cynthia was jealous! Roxanne modulated her voice as if she were trying to keep a college freshman calm before taking her, "Hey, Cynthia, I'd really like that - to be with you. Just us?"

"Well," Cynthia sort of drawled out, "I may let you rough Christina up a little after you worship me. She's been getting a little above her station in life and needs to be taken down a peg or two. How does that sound, lover?"

"You know what I like," Roxanne said with faux enthusiasm.

"Well, dear, turn on the news. I think you'll be pleased. I did it for you."

Roxanne clicked off her cell and went in search of a TV. In Yvette's family room she found one, clicked it on and ran through the local channels. All of them were carrying a live story. Roxanne was stunned speechless. Finally she found her voice and called for the group: "Guys...Guys! Get in here! Now!"

The group rushed to Roxanne and looked as Roxanne pointed at the TV.

...Once again, Los Angeles Police are at this hour inventorying a rental storage unit here in Culver City after receiving an anonymous tip late this afternoon. They have made a truly grizzly discovery.

The police located two 55 gallon drums filled with human bones. An anonymous source with the police said there are at least enough bones to account for up to 20 people. The major shock tonight is that the storage unit is rented by senior Los Angeles assistant district attorney Stacy Masters. The manager of the storage facility told this reporter that Masters was here late yesterday afternoon and unloaded the drums into the unit from a rented truck.

Police arrested Masters late today on suspicion of manslaughter in the death of a UCLA coed during a lesbian sexual tryst with Masters. At the time they were unaware of this new evidence apparently linking Masters to a number of unsolved disappearances and she was released on bond. The District Attorney's office tonight has said they will get a judge, within the hour, to revoke Masters' bond and they will take her into custody on suspicion of committing much greater crimes.

I'm Leslie Sykes, Channel 7 Eyewitness News in Culver City.

There was stunned silence in the room as Herbie turned the TV off. Stacy Masters jumped as her cell phone rang.

"Stacy? This is Michael. For Christ's sake, where are you?!"

"Michael," Masters could barely whisper. "I...I'm uh, I'm with a..."

Herbie jerked the cell phone from Masters as she broke into tears and fell to her knees on the floor. "She's receiving psychiatric treatment. To whom am I speaking?"

"Michael Winston, I'm Stacy's attorney. You would be?"

"Who I am and where she is at the moment is completely irrelevant to you. And just where the fuck were you when she needed bonded out, attorney?" Herbie sneered with a singular contempt. Herbie hated lawyers with a passion. "Don't call back; we'll call you when we need you."

The caller started to protest as Herbie clicked the cell phone off.

"She did this because she's jealous of Yvette and me. My God, I never knew...," Roxanne whispered. Her eyes were wide in stunned disbelief.

"Who did this, Rox," asked Yvette.

"Cynthia." Roxanne fell against the sofa. She was flushed and suddenly it was hard to breathe.

"You didn't know Cynthia wanted you?" It was Claire.

"I don't think its love. I think she just gets jealous when somebody pays too much attention to you and takes you away from her. The only time I'd hear her talk about you was when you were more involved with someone else. It wasn't Christina who turned you in to the D.A.'s office when you raped her three years ago. Cynthia paid someone off the street to make the call the day you had lunch and Ms. Masters visited the group at the club to try and bust you.

"Cynthia gave me to Christina that very night to play with. Cynthia taught her how to be cruel and how to get off on the sadism. She moved in a couple of days later. You didn't know?"

All eyes were on Claire, with her emotionless face and spooky voice.

"No," Rox whispered, tears now in her eyes.

"Tell us more about your life and what happened at Cynthia's, Maggie," Herbie said flatly as he sat on the sofa.

~~~~~~~~~~

Consuelo, the nanny, answered the door. Herbie's frame filled the doorway.

"Woman, you believe in Jesus Christ and all the Saints?" Herbie asked menacingly in Spanish, in his deep voice.

"Yes, Senor, I do believe and I serve Him."

"Then why do you live in the house of the Devil?"

"I had a vision one night. An angel came to me and said Dr. Knowles's children had to be protected from El Diabolo."

"Where are the children?"

"They are in the playroom. It is about time to take them to the beach."

"Take them then, when it's time to come home, go to this address and wait for me." Herbie handed her a piece of paper with an address. "Will you do this?"

"Yes. Are you going to send these demons back to Hell, senor?"

"If Hell will take them back, yes I will."

"Gracias, senor, mucho gracias."

20 minutes later, Consuelo and the children left for the beach. Herbie, Yvette, Roxanne, Claire/Maggie and Stacy Masters, waiting in Herbie's black Escalade, went inside. Cynthia, her "husband" Robert and Christina all were sunning themselves, naked and like snakes by the pool.

In the 10 days since the police had discovered human bones in a rental storage unit in Culver City an intense nationwide manhunt was initiated for Stacy Masters. National news reports placed the death toll of young, college women higher and higher each day. From the safety of a beach house on the Pacific Coast Highway that Herbie had just purchased the group plotted their revenge.

Claire/Maggie had been a fount of information; horrible, nightmarish information about the goings on in Cynthia's house. The only thing Claire/Maggie couldn't remember was her name and her life before being sold as a slave. Herbie offered her psychiatric treatment, certain that with therapy and under Amytal he could find her former life. Claire/Maggie declined.

She instinctively felt that she came from a happy home where something had gone horribly awry. Now she was addicted to sex and was accustomed to her simple life of living naked all the time, being used for sex at anyone's whim and being fed and cared for like a pampered dog. Plus she couldn't imagine going back to a loving "normal" home having seen and done the things she had seen. She said she would be glad to carry Herbie and Yvette's children for them.

Claire/Maggie had but one request of Herbie and the group: she wanted to "do" Robert. Herbie asked if she meant if she wanted to have sex with him one more time. In a calm voice, so full of incredible malevolence that even Herbie was disturbed by it, Claire/Maggie said simply and clearly, "I want to butcher him just like he did to so many young women. I want to do it slow so the fucker suffers before the mouth of Hell opens to take him."

"You know how to do that?" Yvette asked incredulously.

"Oh, yes. They trained me. Robert told me I was a natural. He used me to calm the girls down before he stunned them and hung them up to be bled. I think I have excellent technique. I probably can keep him alive for hours if he doesn't die of fear first."

Herbie exchanged glances with Yvette and the other women. "Okay, Maggie, you're on."

She smiled a smile that chilled everyone's heart.

As they approached the sunning trio Maggie shrugged out of her clothes and ran ahead, padding silently on bare feet and hit Robert squarely in the temple, knocking him unconscious.

Before either Cynthia or Christina could react Yvette had her 12 gauge Winchester riot gun in Cynthia's face and Roxanne held a similar gun to Christina's face.

Cynthia noticed Stacy Masters. "Aren't you going to do something, Ms. Masters?"

Masters pulled up a deck chair near Cynthia's lounger and sat down. "You must not have been watching the news lately. I'm wanted worldwide as one of the worst serial killers in existence. I am not here in an official capacity. I'm just here to watch."

"Hey Cynthia," Yvette taunted, "put your mouth on the barrel. I want to see you suck my shotgun off."

Cynthia smiled weakly, "Yvette, I don't know what you think you know but I'm your friend."

"Suck on it NOW BITCH before I lose my patience!"

Cynthia played it cool; she made it look like she enjoyed sucking on the shotgun barrel, like she wanted to and wasn't being forced. Christina took the tack of looking like she was feeling: frightened for her life.

Soon both were unconscious courtesy of a needle full of sedatives meant to calm psychotic patients.

~~~~~~~~~~

Cynthia opened her eyes. She couldn't move her body. She lay naked on her back in the pump room of her pool, her body completely immobilized by a synthetic cousin of Curare. Yvette sat beside Cynthia's head with a manual ventilator over Cynthia's mouth and nose, known in emergency medicine as an ambubag. If Yvette did not squeeze the bag, forcing air into Cynthia's lungs, at regular intervals, Cynthia would suffocate.

The rage that she experienced when the group came into her home was gone. Cynthia's eyes held indescribable horror: above her head hung her "husband," his head a few feet above her. He was still unconscious.

"We're just going to sit here and wait for your handsome Robert to start to regain consciousness before the party really gets started, Cynthia," Yvette said with a sweet, polite voice while she squeezed the bag and stroked Cynthia's hair.