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azombiewritesTitle: A Murder Hunt
- Sequel to ‘A Murder Mystery’
Rating: PG Bad Language
Fandom: The Magnificent Seven
Category: Four Corners Detectives AU
Main Characters: Ezra and JD
Disclaimers: The guys are owned by CBS, MGM, Trilogy Entertainment Group, and The Mirisch Corp.
Notes: The April 2005 Challenge (the Mystery Challenge) - offered by Jesfrealo. Write a story where a mystery plays a key role in the story. Have one or any combination of the guys be the detective(s). It can be funny or serious and in any open universe. Extra points if you make an unusual pair of the guys work together to figure out the mystery (so not Chris and Vin or Buck and JD...). Have fun!!
Summary: Detectives Standish and Dunne hunt for a killer
Spoilers: None
Author's note: A BIG thank you and a bear hug to the person who nominated this story for a 2008 & 2009 MoM award!
Warning: Josiah Sanchez is the bad guy in this story!
Part Eight
Sanchez removed his hands, sat back onto Standish’s thighs and smiled at the result of his ministrations. The tear that had fallen from the Detective’s closed eye had been a surprise; a surprise he both welcomed and enjoyed. He watched as Standish’s chest continued to rise and fall with each breath, causing his smile to widen. Sanchez knew he could take this man’s life at any given moment and he enjoyed the feeling of power it gave him. However, it was the fear in his victim’s pale green eyes that had given him the most pleasure.
His eyes lit up with a fixation that only his sister could understand.
He reached forward with his right hand, wiped the tear from the Detective’s face and then gently ran the calloused pad of his thumb over the still bleeding cut on Standish’s bottom lip. Sanchez then worked the thumb into his own mouth and slowly manipulated it with his tongue until he had sucked all the blood from the appendage.
When he removed his thumb from his mouth, he noticed the blood that covered the skin of his palm – the result of covering Standish’s mouth with his hand. The sight caused his smile to grow even larger as the emotion spread out across the lower half of his face, his large white teeth shining bright in the diminishing light. He loved the sight of blood, especially when it was someone else’s. His eyes drifted to the thick red liquid covering the right side of the Detective’s face.
Sanchez lifted his left hand to the injury that stood out clearly on Standish’s forehead and pressed his fingers into the open wound, initiating a fresh flow of blood. A hitch in Standish’s breathing told Sanchez the pain was causing the Detective to begin a slow return to the real world.
Standish tried to move his head away from the pain, but the movement only caused Sanchez to press harder. The killer wanted to wake his victim and he did not intend to do it gently.
“Wake up, Standish,” Sanchez said, “we’ve got a long way to go yet.”
Using his fingernails, Sanchez dug even further into the wound and felt the bone beneath the thin layer of flesh. He punched Standish’s cheek hard with a clenched fist. The blow caused the Detective’s head to move beneath his fingers and he lost his grip on the injury.
“Why in the hell won’t you wake up?” Sanchez muttered to himself before finding the wound and digging his fingers into it once more. “Wake the fuck up, Standish!”
Standish unknowingly obeyed the command Sanchez gave him.
He jerked awake with a hiss of pain, his green eyes flashing open and when he saw Sanchez bearing down on him he began a desperate struggle to get rid of the pain that gripped his forehead. Regretfully, Sanchez removed his hand, the blood dripping from the tips of his fingers onto Standish’s face. He wiped the rest of the blood on the brown coat Standish still wore; it left a stain that would be difficult to remove.
“Slow down, Standish,” Sanchez smiled at the confusion and pain written on the Detective’s face and added, “No, you’re not dead . . . but you will be. I just have every intention of dragging this out for as long as I can.”
Standish did his best to give Sanchez a defiant stare as he continued to struggle, but his eyes failed to hide the fear he was feeling. He wasn’t going to get out of this situation on his own, and if someone didn’t find him soon . . . he would lose his life. He knew it, felt it within his very soul that this would end up being his last day on Earth. Death was going to take him, knowing that he hadn’t been able to make amends for what he’d done twelve months ago – not that he would ever be able to. The anger began to grow and he embraced the change of emotion.
“Fucking bastard! Get off me!”
“You’re mistaken, Ezra . . . I didn’t fuck anything, especially a bastard like you,” Sanchez grimaced when he saw the relief filling the eyes that stared back at him. “But it’s something I can rectify if I’ve a mind too.”
When he realized Sanchez had lifted his own buttocks slightly to allow Standish’s legs to rub up against the inside of his thighs, the Detective’s body became still.
“You’re a sick son-of-a-bitch, you know that don’t you!”
“And you’re scared shitless that . . . what? That I’m going to kill you . . . torture you until you beg for mercy . . . or are you so scared of the fact that maybe . . . I will rape you,” Sanchez retorted.
“Go to hell!”
“I will . . . one day, but not today,” Sanchez smiled at the man beneath him. “Maybe I’ll meet you there.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
Sanchez ran his fingers beneath the waistband of Standish’s trousers then quickly pulled the white shirt upward, revealing pale skin covered in a thin veil of sweat. He smiled when Standish’s breath quickened and watched as the Detective’s body trembled with fear as he ran the tips of his fingers along the flesh of the man’s stomach. He stopped when he reached the scar above Standish’s hip.
“Where did you get this scar?”
He looked up toward Standish’s face when he didn’t receive an immediate answer. The Detective had closed his eyes and clenched his jaw tight as though he were anticipating something – something that he wasn’t going to like. Sanchez didn’t want to disappoint him. He leaned forward and grabbed a handful of Standish’s short hair, lifted his head and then slammed it back against the floor with enough force to cause the smaller man to cry out in shock and pain.
“Where did you get the scar?”
Sanchez waited as Standish swallowed the pain then listened carefully to the words that came out through gritted teeth.
“Apprehending . . . a suspect . . . she pulled a knife . . . on me.”
“How many stitches?”
Standish opened his eyes and answered, “Four.”
Sanchez smiled and with his eyes still fixed on Standish’s face, ran his fingers along the flat stomach. A malicious thought pulled the smile from Sanchez’s features, leaving an expression that mirrored the coldness that was now in his eyes.
“I want to show you something,” Sanchez said.
The sudden transformation in the killer caused the fear to grow even more. The knowledge that Sanchez could cause such a strong feeling of fear disgusted Standish, causing the Detective to dislike himself more than he already did.
“What . . .”
With a patience that he rarely felt, Sanchez repeated himself, “I want to show you something.”
“Why?”
“Suddenly, ‘the’ Detective Ezra Standish is at a loss for words,” Sanchez chuckled and stood up. “Think of it as a reprieve from the pain and fear I’m causing you.”
“The . . . fuck!” Anger, once again, diminished Standish’s fear. But the fear came back as quickly as it had left when his words brought a memory out into the open. For a brief moment in time it blocked all thoughts but one from his mind.
They were in one of Jefferson Krinkly’s empty apartments.
A second thought hit him hard enough to steal his breath away and for a few panicked seconds, he couldn’t get the air back into his lungs. When he could breath again, his words were whispered and full of disbelief, “You killed Krinkly?”
Sanchez smiled then said, “Get up.”
Standish shook his head, refusing to do what Sanchez wanted. “No.”
“More fun for me,” Sanchez said.
Before Standish could do anything to stop him, Sanchez reached forward and gripped the collar of the Detective’s coat in his right hand. He then began to haul the smaller man from the room, allowing Standish’s fingers, backside and the heels of his boots to drag along the floor.
“I’m telling you now, Standish, you are going to laugh when you see it.”
Images of what Sanchez could have done to Krinkly flashed through Standish’s imaginative mind as he fought to return to an upright position. His feet pedaled backward, frantically searching for a firm footing on the moving surface beneath his feet. When he finally accepted the fact that he wasn’t going to be able to do it, he tilted his head back so he could see Sanchez. Although the continued movement distorted his view, he could see the reason for his lack of success. Sanchez was leaning his tall body to the right, keeping Standish’s shoulders close to the ground. The position easily stopped the efforts the Detective had made to gain his balance and get back on his feet.
Standish knew what was coming and before he could make a protest that he knew would fall on deaf ears, Sanchez was dragging him down a set of stairs that led to the lower apartments. As they moved downward, Standish was able to lift his feet down each step and at the same time, kept his ass from hitting the hard wooden stairs. He thought for a moment about hooking one of his legs through the wooden banister, but quickly dismissed the idea because he knew Sanchez would enjoy the excuse it would give him to retaliate – probably by breaking his ankle.
When Sanchez noticed what Standish was doing, he quickened his pace, causing the Detective to yelp in surprise at the sudden loss of balance. Pain tore through Standish’s back when his tailbone hit the remaining four stairs with brutal force; he was grateful when they reached the level floor at the bottom of the stairs.
Standish felt one last powerful pull on his coat before Sanchez literally threw him through an open doorway into the apartment that had reluctantly maintained Krinkly’s pitiful existence for the past three years. The Detective landed face first, his bruised left cheek scraping painfully against the rough and dirt filled carpet until he came to a stop.
His eyes instantly surveyed the room but all Standish could see was the cheap furniture and stacks of newspapers that lined the walls of the apartment’s main room. Krinkly was a hoarder when it came to newspapers but had the decency to keep them in his own apartment.
“Get up, and this time I won’t accept refusal on your part,” Sanchez said.
Not wanting to push the small amount of luck he had, Standish rolled onto his side, and then somehow managed to get to his feet. The sudden nausea that spun out of control through his stomach and skull forced him back to his knees. He quickly sat back on his heels and allowed his head to fall between his knees – the smell coming from the carpet didn’t help.
“I’m going to be sick.”
“I can handle my dog vomiting, hell I would gladly clean it up for her before she could eat it,” Sanchez paused and when he spoke again, there was a hint of disgust in his voice, “but if you throw up. . . I’ll force it back down your throat.”
For some reason, Standish believed him. He swallowed the bile, hesitated before taking a few deep breaths – regretting it instantly when he drew the foul smell further into his lungs – and then slowly lifted his head. When he thought he had the nausea under control, he forced himself to his feet but kept his head lowered, his chin almost resting against his chest.
“Into the bedroom, now.”
Standish shook his head in denial but began to walk toward the bedroom. A glance over his shoulder revealed the .40 caliber Glock that Sanchez was now holding. It was Standish’s gun and the Detective couldn’t help but notice that Sanchez’s forefinger held the trigger within a gentle grip instead of resting along side it. Standish let out the breath he’d been holding; it would be a miracle if he survived this day. First, the car accident – the thought of the collision instigated a violent shiver that flowed through his body – then the near suffocation. He didn’t think he could manage to survive a bullet to the back of his head.
Standish expected to find Krinkly dead, his brains scattered over something – the floor, the wall, or the bed. Instead, what he found filled him with surprised relief, if only for a short time.
Krinkly . . . alive.
Krinkly, his body as naked as the day he was born, lay face down on the bed. Sanchez had tied the man's hands and feet to the bedposts in front of and behind him, his body stretched to a point that made if difficult for the man to raise his head.
The man on the bed was looking up at them. Standish looked at the strip of duck tape across his mouth then allowed his eyes to drift upward so he could look into Krinkly’s eyes. Krinkly stared back at him with fear-filled eyes, his face flushed red with embarrassment.
Standish lowered his eyes again and saw the reason for Krinkly’s embarrassment.
Beneath Krinkly’s naked form lay a deflated blow-up doll.
“You’re not laughing,” Sanchez said.
“I don’t find Mr. Krinkly’s situation funny.”
“He was fucking a blow-up doll when I found him,” Sanchez explained.
“Yes, I can see that.”
“And you still don’t think it’s funny?”
“No,” Standish answered.
“And here I was, thinking you had a sense of humor, Standish.”
“Death has a way of suppressing my sense of humor.”
“I want your knees on the floor, your hips against the bed and your face against his back.”
“No,” Standish said, “you can kill me now because I’m not going to--”
The butt of the Glock slammed into Standish’s right kidney, the pain forcing him to his knees. He then found himself pushed up against the bed until his hips were in line with its edge. Ignoring the pain, Standish pushed back with his remaining strength, but it wasn’t enough. His injuries had weakened his body and Sanchez was much stronger. The killer forced Standish’s upper body down until his shoulders and the left side of his face rested against Krinkly’s lower back. Standish then felt Sanchez’s knee press into his back, the killer’s weight keeping him in position.
Standish could feel Krinkly struggling beneath him. The smell of sweat and semen caused the bile to stir within his stomach. He wanted to take a deep breath to control the nausea but knew that if he did, it would only cause him to throw up and that wasn’t a viable option. Standish could hear Krinkly’s fear through his muffled screams. He didn’t want this man to die, but he knew there was nothing he could do or say that would stop Sanchez from carrying out his demented plans.
“I want you to watch him die.”
“No . . .” Standish whispered.
Standish wasn’t going to do it anymore. He wasn’t going to let his fear control him any longer. He wasn’t going to watch Krinkly die. His eyes closed and nothing on this Earth, not even Sanchez, was going to make him open them again.
With his left forearm keeping Standish’s head in position, Sanchez pinched the smaller man’s nose between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and waited patiently for the Detective’s body to respond to the lack of air. When it did, he roughly forced the barrel of the Glock into Standish’s mouth.
“Open your eyes and watch this man die . . . watch as the life leaves his body,” Sanchez said, “or you’ll die instead of him.”
Refusing to open his eyes, Standish shook his head slightly beneath Sanchez’s forearm.
The barrel of his own gun moved further into the back of his throat, causing him to gag and then begin a frantic struggle to breath but he kept his eyes closed.
If he was going to die, let it be now, before Krinkly. After a slow agonizing minute, Sanchez pulled the gun from his mouth.
In a soft voice, Standish said, “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?” Sanchez asked. “You didn’t kill him.”
In the midst of Krinkly’s panicked breaths, Standish heard a muffled gunshot. The body beneath him had stopped moving and he could no longer hear the desperate pleas Krinkly had been throwing at Sanchez through the duck tape for the last few minutes; instead, a gloomy silence filled the room.
Krinkly was dead.
Standish could feel his heart pounding against his ribcage with such intensity it brought a grimace of pain to his pale features.
Sanchez removed his knee and pulled the Detective to his feet. “Your turn, Standish.”
Ezra Standish silently hoped that his mother would make the effort to attend her only son’s funeral.
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four |Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight | Part Nine
Master Fan Fiction List
- Sequel to ‘A Murder Mystery’
Rating: PG Bad Language
Fandom: The Magnificent Seven
Category: Four Corners Detectives AU
Main Characters: Ezra and JD
Disclaimers: The guys are owned by CBS, MGM, Trilogy Entertainment Group, and The Mirisch Corp.
Notes: The April 2005 Challenge (the Mystery Challenge) - offered by Jesfrealo. Write a story where a mystery plays a key role in the story. Have one or any combination of the guys be the detective(s). It can be funny or serious and in any open universe. Extra points if you make an unusual pair of the guys work together to figure out the mystery (so not Chris and Vin or Buck and JD...). Have fun!!
Summary: Detectives Standish and Dunne hunt for a killer
Spoilers: None
Author's note: A BIG thank you and a bear hug to the person who nominated this story for a 2008 & 2009 MoM award!
Warning: Josiah Sanchez is the bad guy in this story!
Part Eight
Sanchez removed his hands, sat back onto Standish’s thighs and smiled at the result of his ministrations. The tear that had fallen from the Detective’s closed eye had been a surprise; a surprise he both welcomed and enjoyed. He watched as Standish’s chest continued to rise and fall with each breath, causing his smile to widen. Sanchez knew he could take this man’s life at any given moment and he enjoyed the feeling of power it gave him. However, it was the fear in his victim’s pale green eyes that had given him the most pleasure.
His eyes lit up with a fixation that only his sister could understand.
He reached forward with his right hand, wiped the tear from the Detective’s face and then gently ran the calloused pad of his thumb over the still bleeding cut on Standish’s bottom lip. Sanchez then worked the thumb into his own mouth and slowly manipulated it with his tongue until he had sucked all the blood from the appendage.
When he removed his thumb from his mouth, he noticed the blood that covered the skin of his palm – the result of covering Standish’s mouth with his hand. The sight caused his smile to grow even larger as the emotion spread out across the lower half of his face, his large white teeth shining bright in the diminishing light. He loved the sight of blood, especially when it was someone else’s. His eyes drifted to the thick red liquid covering the right side of the Detective’s face.
Sanchez lifted his left hand to the injury that stood out clearly on Standish’s forehead and pressed his fingers into the open wound, initiating a fresh flow of blood. A hitch in Standish’s breathing told Sanchez the pain was causing the Detective to begin a slow return to the real world.
Standish tried to move his head away from the pain, but the movement only caused Sanchez to press harder. The killer wanted to wake his victim and he did not intend to do it gently.
“Wake up, Standish,” Sanchez said, “we’ve got a long way to go yet.”
Using his fingernails, Sanchez dug even further into the wound and felt the bone beneath the thin layer of flesh. He punched Standish’s cheek hard with a clenched fist. The blow caused the Detective’s head to move beneath his fingers and he lost his grip on the injury.
“Why in the hell won’t you wake up?” Sanchez muttered to himself before finding the wound and digging his fingers into it once more. “Wake the fuck up, Standish!”
Standish unknowingly obeyed the command Sanchez gave him.
He jerked awake with a hiss of pain, his green eyes flashing open and when he saw Sanchez bearing down on him he began a desperate struggle to get rid of the pain that gripped his forehead. Regretfully, Sanchez removed his hand, the blood dripping from the tips of his fingers onto Standish’s face. He wiped the rest of the blood on the brown coat Standish still wore; it left a stain that would be difficult to remove.
“Slow down, Standish,” Sanchez smiled at the confusion and pain written on the Detective’s face and added, “No, you’re not dead . . . but you will be. I just have every intention of dragging this out for as long as I can.”
Standish did his best to give Sanchez a defiant stare as he continued to struggle, but his eyes failed to hide the fear he was feeling. He wasn’t going to get out of this situation on his own, and if someone didn’t find him soon . . . he would lose his life. He knew it, felt it within his very soul that this would end up being his last day on Earth. Death was going to take him, knowing that he hadn’t been able to make amends for what he’d done twelve months ago – not that he would ever be able to. The anger began to grow and he embraced the change of emotion.
“Fucking bastard! Get off me!”
“You’re mistaken, Ezra . . . I didn’t fuck anything, especially a bastard like you,” Sanchez grimaced when he saw the relief filling the eyes that stared back at him. “But it’s something I can rectify if I’ve a mind too.”
When he realized Sanchez had lifted his own buttocks slightly to allow Standish’s legs to rub up against the inside of his thighs, the Detective’s body became still.
“You’re a sick son-of-a-bitch, you know that don’t you!”
“And you’re scared shitless that . . . what? That I’m going to kill you . . . torture you until you beg for mercy . . . or are you so scared of the fact that maybe . . . I will rape you,” Sanchez retorted.
“Go to hell!”
“I will . . . one day, but not today,” Sanchez smiled at the man beneath him. “Maybe I’ll meet you there.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
Sanchez ran his fingers beneath the waistband of Standish’s trousers then quickly pulled the white shirt upward, revealing pale skin covered in a thin veil of sweat. He smiled when Standish’s breath quickened and watched as the Detective’s body trembled with fear as he ran the tips of his fingers along the flesh of the man’s stomach. He stopped when he reached the scar above Standish’s hip.
“Where did you get this scar?”
He looked up toward Standish’s face when he didn’t receive an immediate answer. The Detective had closed his eyes and clenched his jaw tight as though he were anticipating something – something that he wasn’t going to like. Sanchez didn’t want to disappoint him. He leaned forward and grabbed a handful of Standish’s short hair, lifted his head and then slammed it back against the floor with enough force to cause the smaller man to cry out in shock and pain.
“Where did you get the scar?”
Sanchez waited as Standish swallowed the pain then listened carefully to the words that came out through gritted teeth.
“Apprehending . . . a suspect . . . she pulled a knife . . . on me.”
“How many stitches?”
Standish opened his eyes and answered, “Four.”
Sanchez smiled and with his eyes still fixed on Standish’s face, ran his fingers along the flat stomach. A malicious thought pulled the smile from Sanchez’s features, leaving an expression that mirrored the coldness that was now in his eyes.
“I want to show you something,” Sanchez said.
The sudden transformation in the killer caused the fear to grow even more. The knowledge that Sanchez could cause such a strong feeling of fear disgusted Standish, causing the Detective to dislike himself more than he already did.
“What . . .”
With a patience that he rarely felt, Sanchez repeated himself, “I want to show you something.”
“Why?”
“Suddenly, ‘the’ Detective Ezra Standish is at a loss for words,” Sanchez chuckled and stood up. “Think of it as a reprieve from the pain and fear I’m causing you.”
“The . . . fuck!” Anger, once again, diminished Standish’s fear. But the fear came back as quickly as it had left when his words brought a memory out into the open. For a brief moment in time it blocked all thoughts but one from his mind.
They were in one of Jefferson Krinkly’s empty apartments.
A second thought hit him hard enough to steal his breath away and for a few panicked seconds, he couldn’t get the air back into his lungs. When he could breath again, his words were whispered and full of disbelief, “You killed Krinkly?”
Sanchez smiled then said, “Get up.”
Standish shook his head, refusing to do what Sanchez wanted. “No.”
“More fun for me,” Sanchez said.
Before Standish could do anything to stop him, Sanchez reached forward and gripped the collar of the Detective’s coat in his right hand. He then began to haul the smaller man from the room, allowing Standish’s fingers, backside and the heels of his boots to drag along the floor.
“I’m telling you now, Standish, you are going to laugh when you see it.”
Images of what Sanchez could have done to Krinkly flashed through Standish’s imaginative mind as he fought to return to an upright position. His feet pedaled backward, frantically searching for a firm footing on the moving surface beneath his feet. When he finally accepted the fact that he wasn’t going to be able to do it, he tilted his head back so he could see Sanchez. Although the continued movement distorted his view, he could see the reason for his lack of success. Sanchez was leaning his tall body to the right, keeping Standish’s shoulders close to the ground. The position easily stopped the efforts the Detective had made to gain his balance and get back on his feet.
Standish knew what was coming and before he could make a protest that he knew would fall on deaf ears, Sanchez was dragging him down a set of stairs that led to the lower apartments. As they moved downward, Standish was able to lift his feet down each step and at the same time, kept his ass from hitting the hard wooden stairs. He thought for a moment about hooking one of his legs through the wooden banister, but quickly dismissed the idea because he knew Sanchez would enjoy the excuse it would give him to retaliate – probably by breaking his ankle.
When Sanchez noticed what Standish was doing, he quickened his pace, causing the Detective to yelp in surprise at the sudden loss of balance. Pain tore through Standish’s back when his tailbone hit the remaining four stairs with brutal force; he was grateful when they reached the level floor at the bottom of the stairs.
Standish felt one last powerful pull on his coat before Sanchez literally threw him through an open doorway into the apartment that had reluctantly maintained Krinkly’s pitiful existence for the past three years. The Detective landed face first, his bruised left cheek scraping painfully against the rough and dirt filled carpet until he came to a stop.
His eyes instantly surveyed the room but all Standish could see was the cheap furniture and stacks of newspapers that lined the walls of the apartment’s main room. Krinkly was a hoarder when it came to newspapers but had the decency to keep them in his own apartment.
“Get up, and this time I won’t accept refusal on your part,” Sanchez said.
Not wanting to push the small amount of luck he had, Standish rolled onto his side, and then somehow managed to get to his feet. The sudden nausea that spun out of control through his stomach and skull forced him back to his knees. He quickly sat back on his heels and allowed his head to fall between his knees – the smell coming from the carpet didn’t help.
“I’m going to be sick.”
“I can handle my dog vomiting, hell I would gladly clean it up for her before she could eat it,” Sanchez paused and when he spoke again, there was a hint of disgust in his voice, “but if you throw up. . . I’ll force it back down your throat.”
For some reason, Standish believed him. He swallowed the bile, hesitated before taking a few deep breaths – regretting it instantly when he drew the foul smell further into his lungs – and then slowly lifted his head. When he thought he had the nausea under control, he forced himself to his feet but kept his head lowered, his chin almost resting against his chest.
“Into the bedroom, now.”
Standish shook his head in denial but began to walk toward the bedroom. A glance over his shoulder revealed the .40 caliber Glock that Sanchez was now holding. It was Standish’s gun and the Detective couldn’t help but notice that Sanchez’s forefinger held the trigger within a gentle grip instead of resting along side it. Standish let out the breath he’d been holding; it would be a miracle if he survived this day. First, the car accident – the thought of the collision instigated a violent shiver that flowed through his body – then the near suffocation. He didn’t think he could manage to survive a bullet to the back of his head.
Standish expected to find Krinkly dead, his brains scattered over something – the floor, the wall, or the bed. Instead, what he found filled him with surprised relief, if only for a short time.
Krinkly . . . alive.
Krinkly, his body as naked as the day he was born, lay face down on the bed. Sanchez had tied the man's hands and feet to the bedposts in front of and behind him, his body stretched to a point that made if difficult for the man to raise his head.
The man on the bed was looking up at them. Standish looked at the strip of duck tape across his mouth then allowed his eyes to drift upward so he could look into Krinkly’s eyes. Krinkly stared back at him with fear-filled eyes, his face flushed red with embarrassment.
Standish lowered his eyes again and saw the reason for Krinkly’s embarrassment.
Beneath Krinkly’s naked form lay a deflated blow-up doll.
“You’re not laughing,” Sanchez said.
“I don’t find Mr. Krinkly’s situation funny.”
“He was fucking a blow-up doll when I found him,” Sanchez explained.
“Yes, I can see that.”
“And you still don’t think it’s funny?”
“No,” Standish answered.
“And here I was, thinking you had a sense of humor, Standish.”
“Death has a way of suppressing my sense of humor.”
“I want your knees on the floor, your hips against the bed and your face against his back.”
“No,” Standish said, “you can kill me now because I’m not going to--”
The butt of the Glock slammed into Standish’s right kidney, the pain forcing him to his knees. He then found himself pushed up against the bed until his hips were in line with its edge. Ignoring the pain, Standish pushed back with his remaining strength, but it wasn’t enough. His injuries had weakened his body and Sanchez was much stronger. The killer forced Standish’s upper body down until his shoulders and the left side of his face rested against Krinkly’s lower back. Standish then felt Sanchez’s knee press into his back, the killer’s weight keeping him in position.
Standish could feel Krinkly struggling beneath him. The smell of sweat and semen caused the bile to stir within his stomach. He wanted to take a deep breath to control the nausea but knew that if he did, it would only cause him to throw up and that wasn’t a viable option. Standish could hear Krinkly’s fear through his muffled screams. He didn’t want this man to die, but he knew there was nothing he could do or say that would stop Sanchez from carrying out his demented plans.
“I want you to watch him die.”
“No . . .” Standish whispered.
Standish wasn’t going to do it anymore. He wasn’t going to let his fear control him any longer. He wasn’t going to watch Krinkly die. His eyes closed and nothing on this Earth, not even Sanchez, was going to make him open them again.
With his left forearm keeping Standish’s head in position, Sanchez pinched the smaller man’s nose between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and waited patiently for the Detective’s body to respond to the lack of air. When it did, he roughly forced the barrel of the Glock into Standish’s mouth.
“Open your eyes and watch this man die . . . watch as the life leaves his body,” Sanchez said, “or you’ll die instead of him.”
Refusing to open his eyes, Standish shook his head slightly beneath Sanchez’s forearm.
The barrel of his own gun moved further into the back of his throat, causing him to gag and then begin a frantic struggle to breath but he kept his eyes closed.
If he was going to die, let it be now, before Krinkly. After a slow agonizing minute, Sanchez pulled the gun from his mouth.
In a soft voice, Standish said, “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?” Sanchez asked. “You didn’t kill him.”
In the midst of Krinkly’s panicked breaths, Standish heard a muffled gunshot. The body beneath him had stopped moving and he could no longer hear the desperate pleas Krinkly had been throwing at Sanchez through the duck tape for the last few minutes; instead, a gloomy silence filled the room.
Krinkly was dead.
Standish could feel his heart pounding against his ribcage with such intensity it brought a grimace of pain to his pale features.
Sanchez removed his knee and pulled the Detective to his feet. “Your turn, Standish.”
Ezra Standish silently hoped that his mother would make the effort to attend her only son’s funeral.
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four |Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight | Part Nine
Master Fan Fiction List