Tracking Evil, a Podcast Pt. 13b

Authors note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Tracking Evil, a Podcast - Part 13B

Chapter One: "...Thou art brave, thou art prudent, thou hast excellent qualities...- Alexander Dumas, The Three Musketeers."

The road hummed beneath the wheels of her car as Erica drove. This had been a great idea. She was already feeling better about herself. She loved Arlene, loved Sondra as well but the constant pressure, the need to keep scrambling in one direction, then the next. Putting their bodies, their lives on the line. It was unending. Arlene had been reared for this, trained for this, and even Erica could see she was struggling. Sondra was like a black female version of Rambo, seeming indestructible to Erica but she knew that tough as she was, the loss of Amos, then Destry had cut her friend deep.

Both those women, to Erica, were far more capable than herself at dealing with all the pressure of the hunt. She wasn't. This had all started out as a means to an end. Get noticed for her investigative journalist skills, get a job, be happy.

Instead, she had found the crime story of the century, released her blog to mixed reviews as many didn't give credence to her claims despite the fact that Gerry Butterman was wanted by authorities on the basis of evidence supplied by Erica. Instead of being feted and offered amazing job opportunities, Erica was trapped hunting serial killers, one of whom was now obsessed with her.

She needed to get back to basics, back to what she was good at. Ferreting out the truth, making the connections to uncover the story. The story now, as it had been from the start was Gerry Butterman, the graffiti killer. Despite Arlene and Sondra working to capture The Hockey Fan as a way of finding Butterman, Erica wanted to try a different track. The killer was obsessed with her, had compared her favourably to his dead wife. The one he had murdered. This wouldn't have seemed a good thing, but Butterman had basically told Erica he wouldn't kill her, yet at least. She needed answers, needed to know why he was obsessed with her.

The man was a creature of habits, it was how they had tracked him down the first time. If that held true then maybe his tastes, his needs were a matter of habit as well. There was one person Erica knew that was familiar with Butterman's dead wife, one person who might shed some light on why Erica was now cat nip for a killer. Randall Tiller, the man who had slept with Butterman's wife, who had inspired the killers calling card of 'BILLIII'. (See Tracking Evil Part Three)

It was most likely a long shot but she didn't have a hell of a lot of other leads and this at least would give her a break from guns and violence.

Randall worked on a road maintenance crew; Erica had met him before. Despite the man now being over sixty, he was very fit and healthy and still in possession of the same rough charm that had obviously worked on Butterman's wife all those years before. It had certainly worked on Erica, the old man managing to bed her that very night. When she had met him, Erica hadn't wanted to identify herself as a reporter, instead she had gone for a role as a college student looking to complete a project on a local murder. She would stick to that story when she met him, tell him she was writing a report or something, victim analysis maybe. From her memory of the man, the details weren't important, he'd been happy enough to talk.

Just a mile outside of town, Erica slowed the car to a crawl. The was a maintenance crew working, filling in some potholes with asphalt. At the edge of the crew, shirtless, smoking and leaning on a shovel doing as little as possible was the man she sought, Randall Tiller. She had to admit, for a liar, a cheat, a homewrecker and the fifty other descriptive adjectives, all negative, that could be laid at this man's feet... he did look fine as fuck for a man his age.

The men working had noticed her slowing down and heads were turning towards her. 'Subtle, real subtle' Erica chided herself. She coasted the car the last few yards, coming to a halt beside Randall and rolling down her window.

"Help you?" He spoke without a trace of recognition in his voice. Erica had changed some since they'd last met, her hair for one, but still.... She supposed that just reinforced the man's nature. All Erica had been was an easy lay, easily forgotten the next day.

"Yes, Hi. Mr Tiller. You might not remember me, but you helped me out some months back. I'm Erica, I was doing a project on a local murder, Kristine Butterman?"

A shadow passed across his face, gone before Erica could recognize what emotion he'd been fighting. Then she saw in his eyes that he remembered her.

"Peaches, 'course I remember you. You back for more of the same, eh?"

Erica coloured, reading his true meaning. "Ah yeah, kinda. I had some follow up questions if you have a little time?"

Randall scratched the back of his neck, checking his fingernails afterwards to see what he'd managed to dig out. He was the same as she remembered, course in nature, lacking in manners. He was of average height and build but with heavy slabs of muscle from years of manual work. His head remained freshly shaven, the moustache which had been a mix of white and grey was now decidedly whiter in color, but that was about it.

"On the clock now. Guess I can make my way over to Weaver's after I finish up."

Weaver's was a bar and grill that Erica had eaten in on her last visit. She nodded in thanks, "That sounds good, after 5pm then?"

Randall grinned and turned back to doing nothing. Faced with the back of his head and the stares of his coworkers, Erica put the car in gear and continued into town.

<<0>>

True to his word, at least where getting a drink was concerned, Randall appeared only twenty minutes later than promised. He was alone and he came straight up to the bar, taking the stool beside Erica. He looked speculatively at the bottle of Coors in front of Erica. She immediately signalled the barmaid, indicating she bring two bottles this time. He ignored the barmaid's frosty glare, twisting off the bottle cap himself and taking a long swallow before finally, properly, acknowledging Erica's presence.

"Shit, this must be some project you doin', back again after this long?"

"Well, my professor wanted, uh, wanted me to flesh out some more details. . . about the victim." Erica mentally kicked herself for her clumsy lie. The hesitation and the use of the word 'flesh' had the old man grinning and she needed to keep him on track.

"Anyway, last time we spoke you gave me a brief outline of Mrs Butterman and your relationship. I was wondering if there was any more you can tell me?"

"Uh-huh. I can tell you I like your hair, nice. 'Cept of course, harder to tug on it now it's all short that way."

She patted her pixie cut bob, a result of trying to hide herself from the killers pursuing her. Erica missed her long hair but she'd had it short now for a while and out of habit had been maintaining it that way. Damn the man but he wasn't going to make this easy.

"About Kristine. Anything you can tell me about her?" Erica made the question more specific this time.

"I done told you all, it was thirty years ago, how's a man to remember?"

"Well okay, yeah you described her physically to me and ummm yeah, sexually too, I guess. You couldn't recall at the time how you had originally met. How about now?"

Randall, just drank, silence his answer.

"Ooookay. That's fine. Attraction, maybe you could tell me what attracted her to you?" Even as she asked the question, Erica realized her mistake.

"You know the answer to that, you were bouncin' on it hard nuff to know," he answered with a leer and once more Erica felt her face flush. Dammit, out of practice, she used to be better than this at interviews.

Before Randall could launch into any detailed reply, Erica took a chance.

"Can you think of any reason Gerry Butterman would fixate on someone. A woman. Why he might see something of his wife in someone else?"

This inquiry clearly stumped Randall and see could almost smell burning gears as he thought his way through the question carefully. "You mean reincarnation or some such? Ghost of his wife possessing someone?"

Erica shook her head, granted it was tough to explain without revealing she was the object of obsession. "No, I mean.... Okay look, take me for example. Is there anything about me that reminds you of Kristine?"

"Sure."

"Great, okay so what about me?" Erica fished out pen and paper to write down his answer.

"Well it aint the kind of thing I ken jes' tell you, has to be more shown, you know... hands on."

Erica closed her eyes in exasperation. 'What a fucking waste of time' she thought to herself. She slid off the stool and took a twenty-dollar bill from her pocket, leaving it on the bar to pay for the beers.

"Well thanks Mr. Tiller, ahh, that helped."

Randall turned on the barstool and looked Erica up and down, she had elected to wear a khaki-coloured ribbed jersey top over black denim shorts, open toed leather heels. She had thought casual but professional, God knows what the horny black bastard was thinking though? Actually, she knew exactly what he was thinking before ever he spoke.

"That it? Figured we might get ahhh... how would you college types say it? Get us reacquainted if you feel me?" Randall was all cocky charm, confident in Erica's answer.

"Nope, that's it. Thanks again for your time, you have a good evening now." Erica turned and walked away quickly, never pausing until she was back in her car.

'Good work' she thought to herself, 'way to get back to investigating. No leads and you nearly ended up in someone's bed again.' Erica started the car, beginning to pull out of the car park She had promised herself that this time at least she would get answers, solve clues, break the story... all without taking off her panties. She pulled up to the edge of the road, indicating to pull out. Randall appeared at the door of the bar, swigging from his bottle, watching as Erica pulled out and away.

She turned on the radio, hoping it would distract her, Marvin Gaye 'Sexual Healing' came on, she switched to another station, Britney singing out 'I'm a slave 4 U'.

"Fucks sake," Erica muttered, jabbing at the buttons on the radio. It took her a moment to identify the song but when she did, she groaned in disgust. Peaches singing 'Fuck the pain away'. Erica shut the radio off, throwing up her eyes towards the bright blue sky.

"What God? This some kind of hidden meaning? Can't see why you'd send me messages this way."

Erica squirmed on the seat, the air conditioning must be on the blink because she was clammy and hot.

"What can you tell me?" Erica said in a breathless squeaky voice, sardonically reliving the interview.

"Well it's the kind of thing that just, has to be shown, hands on Miss Moneypenny," she delivered Randall's line a la Sean Connery, James Bond.

She laughed because that was all she could do, passing by the town's outer limit. A mile later she passed the spot where the road crew had been working, except for Randall. He had just been standing there. No shirt on. Sweating.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck, fuck," Erica yelled, slapping her hand on the steering wheel with each fresh outburst. She slewed the car around, heading back, through the town and onto where she remembered Randall's house being.

<<0>>

The house was as she remembered it. Single story, lying just shy of three miles the far side of the town. A porch ran the length of the front of the house, it's painted white finish was in even greater need of a fresh coat than it had been when last, she'd been here. A truck, marked as property of the County Road Crew was parked up front, one of the few perks to his job Erica figured, a company car of sorts. Its presence meant that Randall was home, he must have left the bar moments after Erica had.

Erica pulled into the yard out front, opening her door only to hear the sound of Randall's dog barking. At least it was in the house and not loose, Erica was able to tell that from the muffled timbre of the incessant sharp barks. She walked up to the door, not quite dragging her feet but not far off it either. Her head told her this was a mistake, she didn't need this, that she was better than this.

Erica's heart seemed to concur with her head, a sinking feeling inside of her that smacked of dread and disappointment. Dread that she was leaving herself open for another physically bruising episode, her body still sore in places from the trauma of the porn shoot. Disappointment in herself, she wanted to be all about her career, not a slave to her lusts.

It wasn't her mind or her soul that was in the driving seat however, it was her body. Apparently, it had needs and it wasn't going to be turned around by good sense or something as stale as feelings. It had been that way more and more, ever since she had first compromised her principles, using her body as currency as she sought a fresh lead. It hurt her, her journalistic integrity suffering as she had sunk further and further into a state of weakness for black men and their designs on her body.

Erica knocked on the door, hearing the barking cut off suddenly in response to a shouted command of 'Quiet up you'. Then the door was opening.

"Help you?" It was the same greeting he had offered her from earlier that day but this time he knew exactly who she was and exactly why she was there.

"Yes. Please." Erica said quietly.

Randall leaned against the door jam. His dog stuck his head out past him, sniffing as it probably recognized Erica's scent from her last visit. The older black man idly swatted at the dog, the big coonhound slinking away with its master's dismissal.

"Please huh? Seem's to me you were a great deal more high and mighty back in town. Shutting me down hard with your 'you have a good evening now' and the rest. What happened Peaches? You lost?"

He wasn't going to make this easy. She should have guessed, it was his style, he liked, he needed to be in control.

"I'm not lost," she replied, "I know exactly where I am."

"Well then you know the way back to town don'tcha? You have yourself a good evening now Miss Peaches." With that, Randall made to step back inside, his hand on the door, readying itself to swing it shut.

"Please!" Erica blurted out, stopping him in his tracks.

There must have been something in her voice, an edge of the desperation she felt for answers and sexual satisfaction. When he swung around there was the merest suggestion of compassion in his face.

"Is this on account of Kristine? A woman dead and gone thirty years?" Randall looked and sounded incredulous, but that faded with Erica's silent nod of agreement.

"All this for a fucking college project, that Professor better give you top marks," he shook his head ruefully, "Well come in if you are coming."

Erica stepped into his home, unchanged in its simplicity. Clean but sparse, the aroma that pervaded it seemed to have his coonhound as the source. Reading her mind, Randall picked up a chew toy and he began shooing the dog out the front door, tossing the toy into the yard and closing the door on him.

"I spoil him, leaving him in here so much. He's happier n' healthier out there for a spell. Sit down, get you a beer?"

"Please, thank you," Erica responded, and she sat on the end of the threadbare sofa. Randall went into the kitchen, returning a minute later with a couple of cold bottles of beer, he passed one to Erica before dropping down onto the sofa alongside her.

They drank in silence, Erica sipping while Randall guzzled his beer. She had barely dropped the level below the neck of the bottle when he finished his with an 'Ahhh' of satisfaction.

"Tell me again, what you want to know," he said, before he half turned his head to let out a belch.

"What about me is there that could remind you of Kristine Butterman? You said it was something you had to show me," Erica said, hoping the old man might actually give her a real answer this time.

He scratched at his crotch and Erica's eyes fixed on the front of his pants as he did. He continued scratching, the bulge of his cock moving beneath his fingers. Then he clicked the fingers of his free hand to snap Erica from her daze.

"That's it," he said simply.

"What? What's it?" Erica asked nonplussed.

"I told you last time you were here, you were just like her. You a little cock slut. Lotta girls like cock but you and Kristine, you got it bad for the black meat, aint I right?" He didn't bother waiting for Erica to answer, he just scratched at his balls once again, Erica's eyes swivelling down to his crotch on cue.

"See, I knew it. I ken always tell. You don't look like her, don't talk like her an' I betcha you a lot smarter than her too. Still, you want to be like her, that's why you gone and come back to your ol' black daddy, give him some lovin' like she did. That what you gone and done? Seen enough of the world, finna decided to come back, get yourself all fixed and happy on your Black Daddy's cock?"

Erica watched as he opened his zipper, licking her lips as if anticipating a meal about to be served.

"I know I told you to call me that Peaches, because that's what all my women, Kristine included, call me. So why don't you stop fucking around and say it, eh? Two words and I guarantee you'll feel like poor dead Kristine used to. Two words."

"Black Daddy," Erica said, like the words coming out were not of her own volition.

"Good Peaches, real good. I remember you well now, me and my sister's boy Andre, we bruised you little Peach, made you all nice and tender."

"I remember," Erica said. In truth she recalled every minute of it. Randall, unlike some of the men she'd been with lately, had been the kind of dominant that made you want to obey rather than make you feel you had to.

"Let's get to the bedroom, got a thirst on me for some fresh peach juice," Randall stood up, taking Erica by the hand and leading her to the back of his house, to his bed.

"Best get yourself stripped, see what else has changed 'sides your hair," Randall said as they entered the bedroom.

Erica undid the straps on her heels, pulling the shoes free. Then she opened her denim shorts, pushing them down over the swell of her ass cheeks, all the way down to the floor so she could step out of them.

She caught Randall watching, he had already pulled off the grimy tee shirt he had on, his work pants already unbuckled and ready to fall. Hurrying now, Erica took the hem of her top, her arms crossed so that when she pulled her arms up above her head the ribbed jersey came off her in one clean movement. That just left her underwear, but Randall was already ahead of her, not having bothered to wear any underwear himself.

His cock was the same, eleven long hard inches of black meat, unadorned as he kept both it and his balls shorn completely of pubic hair. Sixty-one years old and she could still sense the energy rolling off of him in waves. Cocky, confident, arrogant. He was all of these things but there was an undeniable pull about him as well, Erica no doubt feeling exactly what the late Mrs Butterman had felt when around him.

His hands went to take off her underwear. Randall didn't look at clasps or straps though, he tore at her clothing instead. The front panel of her panties ripped under his strong fingers, the rest of it distorted as he pulled it from her body, dropping to the floor torn and useless. Her bra fared no better, the plastic-coated hooks bending as he pulled at them, fabric tearing slightly so that as it gave way, it was wrecked and unwearable.