Scaremonger (Mr Quixotic & Lait)

"Think you can say no to me, bitch?"

Cole Douglas spat the words out to the woman underneath him, hips pinned to the bedroom dresser by the much greater weight of his body, curled his fingers in her dark, wavy tresses, and ripped her head up so that she could look at her bruised, battered and bleeding face in the mirror. His own normally green eyes, currently black with rage and hate, held hers in the glass.

The twenty-three year old couldn't even articulate exactly what had set him off. Had it been the confident smirk, or the way she'd attempted to push past him? The reaction to his jocular comment about her ass when he'd left the room which he and his buddies had retired to for a smoke, only to run into her in the Hallway? The fact that he felt as if he were being ignored or mocked? That she wasn't interested? The liquor? The drugs? A combination of all?

He didn't know, but what was fresh in his mind was how quickly any smirk had been wiped off her face by the crack of his knuckles against her cheek; his High-School championship ring catching her lip and ripping it open so that blood dripped down her chin; then the satisfying 'oomphh' as his fist rammed into her side, and he heard what sounded like a rib cracking. "I'm going to fuck you, slut", he'd yelled - the music downstairs pumping loudly enough so that the party-goers dancing and drinking wouldn't be able to hear his voice. Or her screams. A boot followed his punch, which had forced her to knees, then he'd half-dragged, and half-thrown her into the bedroom. Clumps of hair and spots of bright red blood littered the hallway carpet.

Cole Douglas wasn't used to being rejected. The muscular and athletic, six-foot three inch dark-haired male could have any woman he desired. Though it had been five years prior, before College, he remained famous in the coastal town of Eden. Quarterback of the first, and only, team to bring back the Regional High School Championship. Girls still held him in awe, and spread their legs willingly. Apparently, all except one. Who did this bitch think she was, not even giving him the time of day?

Cole had kicked the door shut, dragged the woman's head up, and backhanded her. Once, twice, three times, each harder than the one that preceded it; his knuckles opening up the tear on her lip, and blackening her eyes. Then he'd drawn back his fist, and punched her, "fucking whore", straight in the face; carefui to pull it at the last minute so that he didn't knock her unconscious. That'd be no fun. Blood sprayed from her nose as if shot from a fire-hose, and coated his skin and clothing in its sticky warmth. Next, a knee slammed into her gut. An erection strained the fabric of his jeans as Cole panted with exertion and glanced at his buddies.

It may have been because they were scared of him, but that probably wasn’t it. It may have been the group dynamic, or the effects of alcohol and weed, or simply because they knew he could get away with it. Whatever the reason, not one of the three other young men in the room attempted to stop him, or expressed a shred of sympathy for the battered girl on the floor. Cole was going to rape her, and they'd enjoy watching, then walk away scot-free. That's how it worked when your friend was the son of the town Sheriff; one who had a reputation to protect, and designs on the Mayorship. There were no consequences.

"Fuck the bitch"

"Wreck her Cole"

"Give it to the slut"

Cole grinned at their approval, "You heard them, bitch," then jerked her up off the floor with all of his strength, gripped an arm, twisted it, hooked her ankle with a leg, and threw her face down on the dresser. Adrenaline coursed through the man's veins, and whether she'd resisted or managed to fight back and cause any wounds of her own was of no import. He had her where he wanted her, and any sounds of pain which slipped from her mouth, or expressions of terror on her face, were completely ignored as his body covered hers, fingers were planted on the back of her head, and the woman's cheek pressed into the wood. The nails of his free hand raked skin, leaving scratches and drawing blood, as he tore the clothing from her body; the girl's panties quickly shredded, and around her ankles.

"Think you can say no to me, bitch?" The sound of his zipper being drawn down was unmistakable. "Don't look so fucking good now, do you?" Cole's voice rose and he rammed a knee into her thigh to spread her legs then, quick as a snake, he grabbed hold of her arms and roughly jerked them behind her. The pop as something tore was audible, even over the hoots, laughter and encouragement of his friends, however Cole didn't pause. Immediately her arms were locked, he lifted her entire body; shoved her face into the mirror with enough velocity to shatter the glass, and slammed every last inch of his thick, engorged cock into the woman's dry, unprepared cunt.

This wasn't a movie, book, or some other mommy-porn fiction, where the woman secretly craved the rough treatment, and became slick with arousal. No, this was real-life, and it was going to hurt. Cole didn't give a shit, he wanted to cause pain; the uptight whore needed to be taught a lesson. His moans were not ones of pleasure, but caused by effort and rage, as he buried himself balls-deep, and began to thrust. Each movement wrenched her shoulders and slammed her hips harshly against the dresser as his pulsing manhood invaded her pussy, and ravaged it; almost splitting her in half with the force. The entire time, as he fucked her, his friends jeered and taunted.

"Hurt the bitch."

"Fuck the whore. Go on, give it to her."

"You like that cock, bitch. You want mine when he's done?"

It wasn't sex. Just pure, unadulterated rape.

It was all white noise to Cole; any screams, pants, moans, or words that slipped from her mouth. He couldn't distinguish one sound from another. It was irrelevant. All he cared about was how great it had felt when her nose had splattered against his fist, and that, with her eyes blackened and swollen, she was no longer able to peer through him as if he didn't exist. He'd attempted to be courteous downstairs, to chat and flirt, but the bitch had given him the cold shoulder. If she hadn't, they could well have ended up in the very same room with her moaning in ecstasy, rather than wincing in pain, and dripping blood.

The warm body underneath him was now nothing but a piece of meat to brutalised, fucked, and then discarded like a piece of trash; and to his friends, she meant no more. He could hear them alright, the mocking taunts, and encouragement to go harder. To punish the slut. For what? Deep inside, he knew the reason. All women who refused to spread their legs for a man deserved it. Weak, useless, fucking females, only good for their holes, and if they weren't good for that, they may as well be dead. Maybe she'd realise that once he'd finished, and before she refused to open them for the next guy. Misogynist and bully didn't even come close to describing Cole Douglas.

That's what been feted as a future NFL star, and having every whim and request catered to by teachers, coaches and scouts, did to an impressionable young boy. Possibly, if his mother had survived childbirth, and provided him with siblings, or his Father not been a red-neck who hid his own misogynistic beliefs behind a façade of charm and good humour, things would have been different. A wrecked knee had put paid to any thoughts of a professional career for Cole, but his personality had been ingrained. Always the leader, friends and peers held him in awe, or that's what his narcissism led him to believe. He and his buddies were invincible, and Dear Daddy, Sheriff of Eden, would do anything and everything in his power to protect his only child; not to mention his own reputation, and political aspirations. Brock Douglas was the Law, and his son above it. The apple didn't fall far from the tree.

Cole ripped at her arms as he entered her; his girth spreading her unwilling walls, and forcing its way into her cunt. The yells, cheers and hollers increased in volume, and almost drowned out the noise of Cole's balls slapping against her thighs, and his grunts of exertion. His knees bent, and with her hands pinned to her shoulder-blades, he rammed his entire length into her again and again. The fucking was brutal, and without mercy. For five minutes, ten, fifteen - there was no clock - he pounded the woman. Cole's fingers moved from her wrists as he kept her arms locked with his torso, and hissed in her ear. "You like it, slut?" Simultaneously, he jerked her head up by the dark, wavy locks, and thrust so violently that her entire body lifted in the air. Shards of glass fell from the spider-webbed mirror and landed in her hair, whilst others clattered to the wood, and scraped her face when he pushed her head back down. Cole felt a brief struggle, but the girl was no match for his strength, and soon went limp. He continued to rape her.

Eventually, it was over. With a groan, this time of slight pleasure, Cole inflicted a final insult, and shot his seed deep in her pussy. The bucking and writhing of his hips, as he came, rammed his length further into her ravaged hole, the muscles of which had been loosened by his vicious assault. Cole remained buried all the way inside her for a few seconds, then withdrew. "Was it good for you?" The mocking comment, issued through ragged breaths, caused his friends to laugh as he pushed himself upright, and took hold of an elbow. "I asked you a question." Cole stepped back, dragged her off the dresser, as if she weighed no more than a rag-doll, and deposited her violently on the floor.

"Shit. That was harsh." Dave giggled as he took a swig of the bottle of tequila in his hand, and looked down at the freshly fucked bitch. The other two joined him, and Cole, with his release having melted away some of his rage, dropped his gaze to appraise her. Then shivered. For the first time in his life, he encountered emotions he'd never experienced before. Fear and regret.

"Fuck."

Cole, chest still heaving with exertion, and hair matted with sweat, whispered to himself as he zipped up his jeans, and took in her battered body. Covered in bruises and scratches, patches of hair torn from her scalp, nose broken, with blood from it and the shattered glass embedded in her skin, smeared on her features and dripping from her face, eyes blackened and swollen, the woman was a mess. His pupils widened, and he glanced back up at his friends, who'd gone silent. There was no remorse, and the regret wasn't for her, or for the acts he'd perpetrated; she'd asked for it; but for the fact that, on this occasion, he thought he may have gone too far. The man briefly contemplated disposing of her altogether; slicing her throat, wrapping her in a blanket, and dumping her lifeless body in the river; but that was too much. A line even Cole couldn't cross. For what felt an eternity, which was likely mere seconds, the room seemed to spin, and it was as if he were in a dream. Then, as his eyes locked on the liquor Mark held in one hand, he came to his senses, "Give me that."

He moved quickly to snatch the three-quarter full container from his friend's grasp, then dropped to his knees next to the woman. Had she moved, or spoken, was she even still conscious? He'd been too distracted to notice. Strong fingers gripped either side of her jaw and squeezed, as the other hand jammed the neck of the bottle against her teeth, threatening to break them if she didn't do as directed. "Open your fucking mouth." A light bulb had gone off in his head.

Pour the alcohol down the whore's throat, dump her outside at the bottom of the back stairs, and shatter the liquor bottle next to her face to explain the presence of any glass. It wouldn't be enough to fool a competent forensic examiner, but with a half plausible cock-and-bull story that his Father, and subservient Deputies, could will themselves to accept possibly true, no matter how improbable, he was certain it wouldn't get that far.

"The slut was drunk, and came looking for it. Said she liked it rough. We had sex, then she staggered off with a bottle of tequila. Must have taken a wrong turn, fallen down the stairs, and face-planted on the concrete. Ask my buddies, they'll tell you the same. Four against one, who you gonna believe?"

Cole smiled, and increased the pressure of his digits in an attempt to force her mouth open. "Hate us all you want, bitch. Now, drink."

They displayed no mercy; not a one of them. As Cole kneeled on the floor, holding the bottle to her mouth, he glanced at Dave. "Fucking help me." The two stared at each other for a moment, then his friend did as ordered, with the remaining two watching; Max from his seat on the bed, and Ian standing at the door.

"You sure wrecked the bitch, Cole."

"Whore won't be walking for a fucking week."

Laughing as they drank.

Cole increased the pressure of his fingers, and indicated for his buddy to grab her head. A second set of digits hooked into the hair at her scalp, what was left of it, and jerked it roughly to stretch her neck, and open up her airway, then Cole shoved the bottle down her throat, and tilted it. The liquid gurgled and bubbled through her ragged breaths, and spilled from her lips. A quarter of a gallon was dumped into her bloodstream in less than ten seconds.

"You still awake, slut?" Cole released his grip to slap her cheek, then splashed the dregs from the bottom of the bottle over her bruised, bleeding, and scratched face. The burning pain of the alcohol, akin to salt being poured into an open wound, would soon let him know if she were still conscious, and retained enough energy to put up a fight, or crawl away from where they intended to deposit her. When he detected no reaction, or at least not one with enough strength to be of concern, Cole stood, and nodded at Ian, "Check the Hallway", then spoke to Dave and Max. "Let's lose the bitch."

It must have been their lucky night, for when the door opened, the hallway was clear. Cole had been to the residence a number of times, and knew the layout. It was only a short distance to the back entrance, and the man ensured each of his buddies took an arm or a leg, and dragged her along the carpet. They were in this together, and none was to be allowed to escape culpability if things went awry.

Two minutes later, the back door had been pulled open, and the woman - they hadn't even gotten her name; not that it mattered -, man-handled down the steps, planted face-down on the concrete, with the glass of a smashed liquor bottle scattered around her head, and dress hiked up over her thighs.

"Didn't daddy ever warn you about accepting drinks from strangers." Cole laughed, as he used a spare bottle to pour some liquor on to the ground, then as a final thought, reached down, and tore her ripped panties off completely. Only a slut, looking to get laid, would attend a party without underwear. "Fucking whore."

The guys followed Cole's lead and threw a few insults at her, as he slipped the garment into his pocket, intending to dispose of it later, and appraised the scene to ensure nothing had been missed, then looked up to him.

"She was drunk, and came asking for it. Got a bit rough, which she was totally into, and banged her head on the mirror. After we were done, she walked off, and that's the last time we saw her." Cole's intense gaze moved from one to the other. "Understood?"

He waited for each to acknowledge the question in the affirmative, then turned and headed back up the stairs. It wasn't the first time his buddies had been required to cover Cole's ass, or he, theirs, and all could be trusted to keep their mouth's shut.

By the time the high-pitch screams of the ambulance were heard outside, Cole, Dave, Max and Ian were downstairs, with a drink in their hands, sharing jokes, and chatting up girls.

By the time she'd woken up in the Hospital, screaming, with an IV in her arm, they were all tucked up in bed; the raped woman they'd left laying unconscious at the foot of the back stairs but a distant memory, recalled only through a haze of drugs and alcohol.

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"Sir, we have a possible sexual assault, and battery. A woman in Mercy Hospital; they've requested we attend."

Kyle Evans, the thirty-one year old police dispatcher, held the phone to his ear, mouthpiece covered with one hand, and spoke to Sheriff Brock Douglas, who'd left his office, and was in process of adding sugar to his coffee.

Blue eye's met blue eye's when the large, broad-shouldered male with the wind-weathered features of one who enjoyed the outdoors, calloused hands the size of hams, and crooked nose which told of either a sporting career in his younger days, or a propensity for physical violence, turned with spoon in hand, finished stirring, took a sip of his hot beverage, and rested against the counter. "Send Hernandez."

Kyle shook his head, and glanced at the roster taped to his monitor. "Hernandez is on an RDO, unless you'd like me to call her in?"

Douglas' gaze held the younger man's, and his lips pursed momentarily. "Send Noakes and Edwards."

"Are you sure?"

The Sheriff wasn't a man to be questioned, but Evan's ignored the narrowing of the pupils, and tenseness of body, his query had caused. The ex-army veteran with the short back-and-sides had seen more than enough in Afghanistan to no longer be intimidated by anyone, or anything. Although he'd only been in the job for three months after breezing into town on a whim, and his position was not one of authority, he'd gained the respect of the Sheriff for the inherent steel Brock Douglas sensed in the normally quiet, and soft-spoken, younger male. Little did Douglas know what Kyle Evans was truly capable of, and that he stared into the eyes of a stone-cold killer.

"I'm fucking sure. Just do it."

The normal protocol in cases of alleged sexual assault was to send a female police officer, and Hernandez was the only one they had, however it was within Sheriff Douglas' power to make the call, and after a few seconds, Evans acquiesced with a nod of the head, and picked up the radio to contact the patrol-men.

Brock, like his son Cole, wasn't exactly a ladies man, full of charm and chivalry, and it had taken him less than a second to make a decision. Fucking bleeding-heart females who automatically believed the 'victim', regardless of the story, and blamed men for only doing what came naturally. More than half the women who claimed rape, according to Brock's experience, were either drunk or stoned, or simply sluts and whores, who asked for it.

What was a guy supposed to do if he was cock-teased all night, and she said no when he attempted to take it further. Accept it, and walk away? How many young men's lives had been ruined by false accusations, or a simple misunderstanding? Even if they had been raped, whatever the hell that meant; the definition seemed to change every damn day, and always to the detriment of the male; they'd most likely deserved it. Parading around in short skirts, and tits hanging out of their blouses.

Not that Sheriff Douglas would ever express his true opinions aloud; it could impact negatively on his candidancy for the Mayor-ship. Without another word, he returned to his office with the expectation that his directions would be followed.

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"What have you got for us, Doctor?" Deputy Edwards, a fifteen year veteran, and elder of the two policeman, took the lead as they arrived at the Hospital, and followed her to the room where the alleged victim was sedated. Noakes, a relative newcomer, who'd graduated from the academy barely two years previously, walked in silence beside them.

"Found outside at a house party. Broken ribs, nose, scratches and bruises, contusions, and two dislocated shoulders. At first glance, we assumed she'd fallen down the steps where she was discovered, but when she awoke, she claimed to have been raped. Vaginal tearing and semen confirm that as a possibility."

"Alcohol? Drugs?"

The Doctor stopped abruptly when asked the question, and shuffled the papers in her hand. "Legally intoxicated." She paused for a moment, knowing where the men where going with this; the same place they usually did; then sighed before she reluctantly revealed the girl's alcohol reading. "Six times the legal limit."

The deputies didn't react, except to exchange a knowing glance with each other. Virtually every rape case they responded to was the same thing. A woman out at a party unable to hold her alcohol, or under the influence of drugs, losing control and allowing herself to be taken advantage of. By the sounds of it, this one had consumed enough liquor for ten. It was a wonder her memory functioned at all.

"Thank's Doctor. We'll take it from here." Edwards placed a hand on her elbow to stop her from entering the room with them, and walked in with Noakes. The woman looked as she'd been attacked with a hammer; face battered and bruised, eyes swollen, IV's in her arm, both shoulders torn, and tear-stains on her cheeks.

"I'm Officer Edwards, this is Officer Noakes." Edwards pointed to himself, then to the other similarly blue-uniformed officer; the younger man's build still athletic, and with a head of brown hair, as opposed to the middle-aged spread and buzz-cut that Edwards possessed; as he pulled out a chair next to the bed, dropped into it, and withdrew his notebook.

"Tell us what you recall about last night."

No empathy, or concern, or questions about her welfare. That wasn't their job, they were there for the facts; as long as those facts coincided with ingrained biases.

When it came to being a Paradise on Earth for women, a town could never have been more inappropriately named than that of Eden.

As Noakes stepped closer, the bruises on the woman's body appeared to come alive; the purple and brown standing out so vividly on her caramel skin. He'd seen rape victims before, of course, it was par for the course in his job, but never one who'd been battered as badly as this; that was, if she'd been telling the truth. However before he could speak, or ask about her welfare, Edwards had shot him a glare; one which told him to remain silent; and taken the lead. Seniority and experience counted for much in the Police Force, and the younger man knew better than to disobey orders. His livelihood depended on it. That much he'd learned in the Academy.

Edwards leaned back in the seat, crossed one leg over the other, and casually scanned the medical equipment. The man despised Hospital's, they were always so dark and depressing - why the hell didn't they paint the walls in a cheerful colour; something like bright green or yellow, rather than drab institutional grey? - but the sight of IV's, or the woman's condition didn't affect him. Try spending five years in Traffic, where you had to view the smashed and broken, lifeless bodies of young children who'd been thrown through the windscreen of their parent's vehicle after been hit by a drunk-driver, and impacted the asphalt with enough force to be barely still be recognisable as human beings. They were the real victims; not women such as this, who regardless of how she had come to be here, had placed herself in a position to allow it to occur. As Edward's realised she'd begun to speak, his focus moved to her face.

The story she told was similar to ones he'd heard before, and his countenance didn't change, however from behind, as she spoke about the violence, there was a sharp intake of breath. The two policemen's met again, and held each other's for a second, before Noakes glanced away. A look of disgust and anger had passed across his features. Edwards was going to need to have a talk to the boy; emotions were best kept to yourself so as not to influence proceedings, or provide the impression that accusations were accepted as fact.

Despite that, Edwards unwillingly found himself beginning to feel some sympathy for the woman as each word burned into his ears. Her tone, the surety of her words, the obvious anger, and that look in her eyes had caused him to start to believe her. Unconsciously, he leaned forward in his seat, and the hand not holding the notebook reached out to pat her arm in a gesture of consolation. Then, before fingers contacted skin, everything changed.

"Cole Douglas is the reason I'm sitting here on this hospital bed talking to you. Cole Douglas is the reason why my face looks like this. Cole Douglas is the genius who thought he could play it off by tossing me at the bottom of the steps and making it seem like I was some drunk whore looking for a good time."

Time slowed, and the air thickened. It felt as if he were stuck in a vat of molasses as eyes widened, and neck craned to meet the similarly shocked expression of his colleague. Cole. Fucking. Douglas. The two officer's had just stepped into the biggest shit-storm imaginable, and needed to get the hell out of there. Pronto.

Always the professional, and with greater experience, Edwards was first to recover his composure, The notebook snapped shut, and he stood from the seat. Pupils narrowed as he locked them on the woman in the bed. "Let's see if I have this straight, Miss." Noake's could do nothing but stand motionless and stare. "You attend a party that you didn't wish to attend. Spend whatever time sitting by yourself in a corner, speaking to no-one, and drinking soda, when suddenly four men you don't know from Adam decide to harass you? Subsequently, of your own volition, you walk upstairs to their location, where they take it upon themselves to drag you into a room and rape you. All without any provocation whatsoever?"

Edwards made a point to check his notebook, as if to ensure he'd written everything down correctly, and continued on without pause. "Where after they're done, they pour liquor down you throat - which apparently explains why, according to the Doctor, your alcohol reading was six times over the legal limit - beat you with their fists, and dump you outside? All of this occurred without you managing to scream, or otherwise attracting the attention of a single person?" The officer's head shook, - he'd begun to convince himself that her story was indeed bullshit, and injected sarcasm in to his tone. "I assume there's no witnesses that you've conveniently neglected to mention?"

It was a rhetorical question; asked as he motioned for Noake's to leave the room. "We'll investigate, but without independent corroboration, I doubt we'll make any progress. However, if you still wish to lodge a formal complaint, I'd suggest you attend the police station when the sedatives wear off, and you've regained the full use of your faculties."

Five seconds later, Edwards had left the room to join Noakes, whose face was a pasty white. Their actions went against all training and protocol, not to mention any commitment to 'protect and serve'. The irony was that it was the only way to protect their careers. Brock Douglas political connections and influence would ensure his own safety, and this sort of shit always rolled downhill.

"What the fuck are we going to do?"

Edwards gripped Noakes by the shirtfront, and jerked him roughly forward so that their faces almost touched. His tone brooked no disagreement. "You are going to keep your damn trap shut, and not breathe a word of this to anyone." He shook the younger man and stared him down, until he was certain that he'd gotten the point, then shoved him away and turned towards the nurses station. They'd collect the girl's clothing and medical report.

As they approached, the Senior Officer slipped the police radio from his belt. "Evans, get me the Sheriff. NOW."

A brief pause.

"Brock, we have a problem."

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"And your buddies are going to give me the same story?"

Brock Douglas stood at his kitchen counter, arms folded across barrel chest, and stared at his only son who leaned casually against the door jamb.

"Don't stress, Dad, They were there the entire time, and they'll confirm every word." Cole paused for emphasis. "Every word."

The Sherriff's eyes remained locked on his son."No-one else was present? No-one noticed you with the girl?"

Cole shrugged nonchalantly." No-one. The bitch asked for it, and I gave her what she wanted. She can say whatever she likes, but that's what happened. Honestly, there's nothing to worry about." The rapist was now consoling his father.

The elder Douglas' lips pursed as he contemplated the situation, then slowly he unfolded his arms and nodded. Not once had he asked if his son had done it; if the girl's story were true, and that his own flesh-and-blood had brutally raped a defenceless woman, and beaten her half to death. He knew it to be true, however that wasn't the point.

The point was that Cole had been smart, and there was an opportunity to save both their skins. Whatever had happened to the woman, in all likelihood had been deserved. A man could only take so much teasing, rejection, or mouthing off. God knows, he'd had cause enough to use his fists on the boy's mother. The woman was probably lucky that she'd died giving birth.

The men met in the middle of the room, and Brock clapped his only child on the shoulder. "I'll take care of it. Next time, just don't crap in your own nest. Or mine. Understand me?"

Cole smiled. "Yes Sir," as his Father departed, then grabbed himself a beer from the fridge. There was a game about to start, and he didn't want to miss kick-off.

Brock Douglas' week was occupied investigating the alleged crime scene, and running forensic tests on blood, clothing and hair samples; each piece of evidence carefully checked for consistency against the varying stories told by Azairah D'Amici, and Brock's son Cole, and friends. Or, more to the point, rather than the evidence being checked for consistency against the woman's accusations, each piece was forced to fit that of the boy's tale; twisted and turned, moved and replaced, either viewed as important, or ignored.

The hair and blood on the hallway floor and walls was explained away as simply a result of the girl, staggering from the effects of liquor, bouncing off the walls; blood and hair loss itself a consequence of the violent, consensual sex, each of the young men had stated took place, which had also resulted in vaginal tearing, and the 'accidental' shattering of the mirror. With her face.

The dislocations to her shoulders occurred when Zai drunkenly attempted to halt her tumble down the steps; glass embedded in her cheeks, broken nose, and blackened eyes came from landing face-first on the concrete; and the high alcohol reading provided proof she'd been drinking; only confirming what they'd already decided to have taken place.

Witnesses were questioned, then re-questioned, until none could be certain that they'd seen Cole speaking to the girl at all that night, or if in fact - in the face of a man who was an expert in interrogation -, the picture they'd been shown was that of the same woman who'd sat in the corner. The residence had been thoroughly scrubbed after photograph's had been taken. Or not taken, as the case may be. Brock and Edwards alone worked the scene.

That Azairah D'Amici was discovered to be sans panties only added further fuel to the fire, and unfortunately, the semen and blood samples recovered by the Hospital were lost. A pity, but these things happened. Not once did the investigators return to check on the woman, or take a further statement.

Her departing words had been blocked from the memory of Officer Edwards, and hopefully those of Noakes as well. It was Brock's case now, and Noakes was out of the loop, expected to keep his mouth shut. And he would. As would the rest of the officers.

The Police Force, particularly in a town such as Eden, was no different from a clique of High-School Jock's, with the Sheriff as its leader. Each member was aware that, if ever it was required, he'd back his men to the hilt, and in return, they were expected to display the same loyalty. If they refused to toe the line, there'd be only one winner. Brock Douglas.

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"Calm down Edwards, just put the woman in Interview Room 1, and I'll take care of it. Ask Diaz to tell her the Sheriff will be in attend to the mater personally, as soon as he can. You stay clear."

Brock took a deep breath, then sighed. He'd hoped it was over; he'd known Aizarah had been released from the Hospital - they'd kept track - , and wishful thinking had the woman forgetting about the entire incident, and moving on. However, that didn't appear to be the case, and now the bitch was going to need to be set straight.

The Sheriff placed a call, then sat back and listened to the second-hand tick away on his wall clock. Five minutes passed, ten, fifteen, and only when it hit twenty, did he move. Brock collected his utility belt, placed it around his waist, and made his way to Interview Room 1.

The eyes of his staff were all upon him, but Brock spoke to no-one as he halted outside to appraise the woman through one-way glass, and took in her attractive features. No wonder Cole had wanted to fuck her. Had the wait calmed her down as he'd hoped, or only served to increase her agitation? He'd discovered the answer to that question soon enough, not that he intended to provide Azairah D'Amici the opportunity to speak her piece. He wanted her out of there, in no doubt as to where matters stood, as quickly as possible.

"Ms D'Amici, alleged rape victim, I presume?" Not having even introduced himself, Brock leaned against the closed door, folded arms across his chest, and stared at her. "I don't know why you continue to waste valuable police time, and resources. As Officer Edwards advised, without corroborating evidence, there's nothing we can do. Your complaint has been fully investigated, and there's not a shred of evidence to support any of the accusations you've made against Cole Douglas."

Slowly, as he spoke, his arms unfolded, and Brock moved toward her. The man's lips curled up into a smile, though it wasn't one of amusement, as he reached the table, planted his hands either side of it, and leaned forward so that his bulk towered over her, "In fact, the complete opposite. All evidence supports the young man's story to a tee, as do the witnesses who claim to have seen you all over him, downstairs.

That was a fabrication, of course, but Cole Douglas was a High School Football Hero, and it wouldn't be difficult to believe that others would lie to save his skin. "Whatever your motives, I suggest you drop these silly little games, and get on with your life. Best thing for all of us, I think, don't you Miss?" It was a rhetorical question, and Brock didn't wait for an answer. He was on a roll. "Because, even if charges were laid, do you have any concept of how it would pan out?"

The Sheriff pulled back from the desk, and shook his head, gaze still locked on the attractive young woman as he paced in a circle around the desk. "The jury would be told how you were staggering drunk, and attended the party with no other intention but to get laid, where you hooked up with an innocent and popular young man, and were seen entering an upstairs bedroom with him, of your own volition. His friends would testify that's precisely how it occurred, and how, in that bedroom, you begged for him to give it to you rough, and fuck you like a whore."

"Then." Sheriff Douglas ceased his pacing, and came to a stop directly in front of her, his tone one of completely surety. "The defence attorney would drag in every boyfriend you've ever had, every man you've slept with, and question them on how you liked it. Did you enjoy being slapped, possibly choked now and then, ever let yourself be tied up, or had a one-night stand, take it up the ass? And that would just be the start." Brock's lips pursed, then quickly as a snake he moved, and his palms slapped back down onto the table in front of her, the sound of it echoing around the room.

"You think you were raped at that party, honey? If you dare continue on with this charade, or breathe a word of your false accusations to anyone, I will ensure you are raped all over again. By the legal system. Now get the fuck out of here." At the very moment he screamed the words, there was a knock on the door, and a man entered the room, gaze locked on Azairah Douglas. The call the Sheriff had made earlier.

"Hey Dad."

Brock Douglas glanced around to acknowledge his son, then turned back to the woman, a look of pure anger and hatred on his features, and lifted a hand to point to the exit. "Out."

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From his position in the dispatch room, Evan's viewed the entire process through the one-way glass. The man didn't possess the ability to lip-read, but one didn't need to, to be able to know what was occurring in Interview Room 1. Azairah D'Amicic was getting railroaded.

The Station had been abuzz with gossip and rumours about the girl ever since Noakes and Edwards had first returned from the Hospital. How she was some cheap whore, looking for attention, who'd gotten drunk, allowed herself to screwed by the local football hero, and now regretted it. Cole didn't deserve to be accused; all he'd done was take an attractive young woman up on her offer of sex, as any man would. Evan's didn't believe a word of it, and as he watched, he knew for a fact that the woman had been brutally raped and beaten by the Sheriff's son, who was going to get away with it, scot-free, whilst she'd be left to deal with the consequences for the remainder of her time on Earth.

That that she hadn't willingly spread her legs for Cole Douglas - which couldn't be said for many of the girls around town -, and he'd needed resort to raping her, told Evans something about the woman behind the glass. She wasn't a typical slut who'd fuck her way to popularity, and jump on a cock simply because she could use being drunk or stoned as excuse, regardless of the collateral damage it caused. She was innocent; a lamb to the slaughter. Unlike his cheating whore of an ex-wife.

A tear fell from the corner of his eye and rolled down his cheek as Kyle Evans experienced an emotion he hadn't felt in such a long time. Empathy. Azairah D'amici hadn't asked for the pain, and didn't deserve to be made suffer. Not like the others; they did. To be forced to assume responsibility for their actions, and pay the price; to be made beg, scream, grovel, and acknowledge the hurt they caused. To admit their guilt, plead for mercy, and ask for one last chance to set things right.

But why should he demonstrate mercy, when Amy had never shown it to him? He'd begged. He'd screamed. He'd grovelled. He'd pleaded and cried. But what had the bitch done? She'd laughed in his face, and told him she was pregnant to another man. Evans had served his country, gone through hell, almost given his life, and that's the gratitude he received? It wasn't fucking right.

Amy had been murdered five times now, and on each occasion Evans had laughed in her face as the blood drained from her body, and the life from her eyes.

It relieved his pain.

Zai's reaction wasn't unexpected. Not after the woman had made her statement at the Hospital, then walked into the Station of her own accord to press her case. After all, Aziarah D'Amicid had been brutally raped. Did Brock really think that she was going to plant a smile on her face, drop the accusations, and pretend the incident had never taken place, as he'd suggested she do? Not a snowball's chance in hell, which is why he'd decided that the best strategy was a full-on frontal attack, so that she'd be left in no doubt as to where she stood.

That was the reason Cole had been invited, and greeted the Sheriff as Dad, just as the boy had been instructed to do. At the party, it had been four against one, and he'd wanted to make it clear, that here, in the police station she was again outnumbered; this time by one man who had more influence, reach, and power, than the original assailants combined, and his flesh-and-blood, for whom he'd give his life to protect. Chief of Police in a town such as Eden equated to control, and the bitch didn't stand a chance. However, she required time to come to that conclusion for herself, which is why the elder man didn't interrupt her tirade.

What other options did she have but accept the facts as they stood, when the highest authority in town had investigated, and rejected her claims. Search out the media for assistance? That concept didn't concern the Sheriff in the slightest; the local reporters and television stations were in his pocket, reliant on the Police Department for information; information which, if withheld, would quickly see their companies driven out of business by competitors. The coastal community of Eden didn't exactly attract the Woodward's and Bernstein's of the Journalistic profession, where dogged persistence, and discovery of the truth, was of more importance than being able to put food on your family's table, or provide for your children's education.

Azairah's demeanour, and the pain obvious in her words, brought no empathy from Brock. A Police Officer, he was, sworn to 'Protect and Serve', but the career hadn't been embarked on because he gave a shit about people. No, the sole reason for his chosen profession was because it allowed him to exert power and control, and provided a legitimate outlet for Brocks's violent tendencies. Criminal's were arrested because that was his job, and being seen to do that job well could lead to the achievement of his ultimate goal; that of being elected Mayor of Eden. The Sheriff would apprehend anyone, for anything, if it led to a drop in crime-rates, and caused him to become a darling of the voters. Except, that is, for his son, Cole.

The boy had remained silent after greeting his Father. With his back resting against the door, and a smirk on his face, he stared directly at the woman he'd raped, and enjoyed the shocked expression at the revelation of his relationship to the Sheriff. The High-School football hero was barely able to stop himself from laughing aloud. Fucking priceless.

She ranted and raved, and bitched and moaned, and accused them of everything under the sun, and they let her get it all out. Why shouldn't she be upset? Every word Azairah D'Amici spoke was the truth. The only reaction came at the mention of Brock's ex-wife. His eyes darkened, and a hand clenched into a fist by his side. Teeth bared, his lips curled up, and he took a step forward. Then, he caught himself, and instead of screaming or slapping the bitch into submission as he'd intended, he chuckled, and lifted his hand to make the sign of the cross on his chest. "My poor wife is dead, may god rest her soul."

Any thought that the words and gesture were intended with sincerity was surely put to rest with the next sentence uttered by Sheriff Douglas, with eyes locked on Azairah. "She once used to have spunk, but I beat it out of her before she died; now get the fuck out, before I do the same to you." There were no camera's operating in the room, no microphones switched on for others to hear the conversation; for anyone outside watching through the one-way glass, it was if they were viewing a silent movie; one for which the ending was known far in advance.

Brock motioned for Cole to leave the entrance and provide Zai room to exit. The young man slid aside, and the two men watched her walk to the door. As she passed him, Cole reached out to brush her arm with his fingertips, and leaned to place his lips close to her ear. "You know what I'm sorry for. I'm sorry I didn't make you suck my cock first, or let my buddies take a turn. Next time, bitch."

Cole Douglas then slammed the door behind her, and turned to face his father. "Is it over, Dad?"

"It's over, Son."

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Unlike the sworn Officers; who stood around, laughing and joking, drinking coffee and eating doughnuts as they pretended to go about their business, with one eye on what was occurring in the Interview room; Kyle Evans watched it all unfold in complete silence, from the isolation of dispatch.

The Deputies, or blue soldiers as he referred to them, kept to their own kind, and, deliberately or not, Kyle was never invited along to any social events, or asked to participate in the consumption of beers, and swapping of stories. Apart from when he radioed to direct them to a job, they treated Kyle Evans as if he didn't exist. And that suited Kyle just fine.

Ever since his Army discharge - the bastard Government hadn't even provided him a pension, claiming his disability to be an 'inherent mental disorder' rather than in any way related to post traumatic stress -, and subsequent break-up with Amy, he'd been a loner. Befriend no-one, avoid attention, and when the hurt became too much to bear, seek vicarious revenge on his ex-wife. That was his only goal in life, and the more pain he caused in it's achievement, the more it relieved his own. Kyle Evans wasn't crazy, he was aware every moment of every day, of exactly what he was doing. And why.

As Azairah approached, and rapped on the glass, barely two feet away from where he sat, it was if she had seen him, and deliberately sought him out, begging and pleading in silent screams, for his help. Her mouth opened, but he couldn't hear the words, and he knew she couldn't see him, but still, another tear rolled down his cheek, and when he stood to place his palms against where her knuckles had touched, he recognised something in Azairah that no normal man would, and it sent a shiver down his spine. The woman's eyes weren't really eyes; they were nothing but blacks pits of despair, and a doorway to the depths of hell. Evans should know, he gazed into those very same eyes each time he looked in the mirror.

He could have helped her. No-one else would, but he could have. Kyle was trained in un-armed combat, and possessed the ability, with the element of surprise, to have taken down each and every man within the station before they could blink, including Sheriff Brock Edwards, and his son, Cole. He could have done that, then slid his arms around the woman, and whispered a promise that she'd be safe and, with time, the pain would recede. But what good would it have done?

It would have been a lie; the pain never faded, not truly, and things would never be okay. Life could never be as it once was; that you needed to be selfish to survive, and only look out for yourself, was a message that had been burned into his soul the past two years, and there was nothing he could do to help. Trust no-one, care for no-one, get close to no-one, allow no-one to get close to you, and you couldn't be hurt, had become Kyle Evans motto. The woman would need find her own way to deal with the pain; a reason to keep living, and a purpose. As he had.

When the telephone rang as she exited the Interview Room, Evans pulled his gaze away, and answered the call, "Sheriff's Department, what's your emergency." As his mind had become adept at doing with those matters it preferred not to dwell on, so that room could be left for hate, the woman was already being forced from his memory.

Little did Kyle Evans know what fate had in store for he and Azairah D'Amici.

It was over.

If looks could kill, Cole's heart would have ceased beating immediately with the ice-cold stare his touch and final words had brought forth from Aizarah. However, they couldn't, and so the rapist watched his victim exit the Interview room, with a smirk pasted on his face. That she desired revenge, and wished to see him dead, Cole Douglas was in no doubt, and the very concept almost caused him to chuckle aloud. The pathetic slut could wish what she liked, but both knew she wouldn't stand a chance against a real man. Survival of the fittest was the way of the world, and Azairah D'Amici had deserved everything that had occurred for being so fucking weak, but then that was to be expected. She was a woman.

Once again, Cole Douglas, with the assistance of his corrupt and ambitious Father, aided and abetted by the moral cowardice of those supposedly heroic and ethical deputies sworn to protect the pubic and uphold the Law, had gotten away scot-free with his crimes. When would it ever stop?

The minute she exited the police station, Aizarah D'Amici also exited the Sheriff's list of problems. Her file was marked 'Complete', and placed in a bottom draw; the deputies were assigned to real cases with real victims, Brock returned to schmoozing with the media in his attempts to gain support for his upcoming Mayoral nomination, and Cole Douglas, with hero status amongst friends enhanced, continued to hit on girls; willing or not.

Two weeks after the incident, the raped and beaten woman was but a minor footnote in history.

A month passed, and it was if the woman had never existed, and the alleged rape never occurred.

Forgotten by everyone. Cared about by no-one.
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Except, that was, Kyle Evans. As hard as he tried to push her from his mind, and mostly succeeded; on occasion he'd wake up in the dead of night, panting and out of breath, sweat beading on his forehead, legs kicking at the covers, and hands scrambling for a purchase which wasn't there, with her name on his lips. In the darkness of his bedroom, he'd sense a shadowy figure; that of a woman, too vague to make out, giving him nothing to focus on except for a denser patch of blackness five feet from the ground which he took to be the soulless, hollow pit of her eyes. Staring directly at him, apportioning blame to Kyle Evan's for not offering help.

Why the nightmares, which followed him out of his dream state and always took a minute to fade, would be of Aizarah D'Amici, rather than the young women he'd beaten, stabbed, choked, and sliced to death; the one's he'd left laying in a pool of their own body fluids, raspy words, and pleas for mercy being hacked from their lungs along with clumps of black blood, legs and eyes twitching in pain, nails - ripped to the quick - scraping cement, tarmac and wooden floorboards, noses broken, teeth smashed, and skin shredded and ripped as if they'd been attacked by a wild animal; he wasn't certain.

Possibly because Zai was an innocent victim, whilst the others had been the authors of their own demise, and the application of pain was only enjoyable when deserved?

Not only enjoyable; but necessary to keep him alive.

It had been two months since the last victim, and Kyle Evans was once again on the prowl

However not in Eden. As Brock Douglas had said to his son, "Don't crap in your own backyard", and the Army veteran had followed that strategy from the very beginning. The metropolis of Rome lay only a short distance inland, and with a with a population ten times the size, offered both the advantages of invisibility, and a greater concentration of suitable prey.

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"Fucking asshole."

Twenty-eight year old Mark DuBouis, picked himself off the ground, slapped his hands against his jeans to remove the dust, and spat the words out at the mountain of muscle in front of him.

"I told you, keep your hands off the girls."

Dubious swayed drunkenly from side to side, and almost stumbled to his knees again as the mocha leather jacket he'd removed in the Club hit him in the face, then the back door of the Strip joint slammed slut.

"Fucking asshole." Mark pulled the jacket away from his vision, and slipped into it as he started at the entrance in contemplation of whether he should attempt to re-enter. However, even in his alcohol and drug-addled state, he knew that wasn't such a good idea. Instead, he kicked dirt with his steel-capped boot, and screamed, "FUCKING ASSHOLE", one last time at the top of his voice, and slammed his fist against a wooden signboard next to him.

Stupid bitches teasing him all afternoon, rubbing their crotches against his cock, and shoving their tits in his face, taking his money, and he couldn't even touch? Dubois kicked the dirt again. What the hell was he supposed to do now. Go home and tell his wife that he'd just been laid off, and spent his retrenchment on booze, drugs and strippers. No fucking way. He'd find another club, and this time one where he could cop a feel. Make it a whorehouse; yep, that's just what he was gonna do, Dubois decided, and that's when he saw her. Maybe he wouldn't need to.

"Hey honey, where you going?" The words were slurred, and Dubois started walking as the woman turned into the lane. He hadn't got a peek at her face, but from behind she looked hot. Maybe it was one of the strippers? Even Candy, the teasing slut who'd screamed for security when he'd grabbed her ass. "Hey, bitch, where you going?"

The alcohol swirled in his brain, mingled with the drugs, and the anger which had been building up inside him erupted. He was aware the woman walking down the lane wasn't Candy; but yet it was. It was her, and the bitch had taken his money, and given him nothing for it. Not even a damn handjob.

Dubois' pace picked up, and all of a sudden he was sprinting and closing the distance with each step. "I asked you a question, whore." Gasping and grunting with exertion, his footsteps pounded the pavement, and he made a desperate lunge. Fingers found purchase on the strangers arm, and gripped a wrist. "You ain't going no-where until I get what I fucking paid for."

His free arm snaked up, and knuckles cracked against the side of the anonymous women's face as the ex-construction worker, filled with blind rage, and drunken fury, twisted her around, shoved her up against a wood-paled fence, and then dropped his hand between her legs; ready to take what which was his to take.

Kyle Evans didn't believe in God, a higher power, coincidence, or fate. The stars didn't align, it wasn't 'meant to be', and there was no purpose in life, except that which you determined for yourself. The fact he was there that evening at that very location, at that very time, was nothing but pure chance. It didn't happen for a reason; it just was.

He'd parked his vehicle a good distance away, on a main road and pointed towards Eden, and arrived in Rome just as dusk had fallen. With the majority of office workers having departed for the day, and the night owls yet to arrive to fill the clubs, the City was virtually deserted. Enough for Kyle, with the pockets of his black overcoat containing the tools of his trade; or at least the trade he intended to ply that evening; to remain unnoticed as he strode towards the centre. A few people passed, but none attempted to make eye-contact as he breathed in the cool night air and kept to the laneway's; not concerned in the slightest about muggers or transients. His gaze remained straight ahead, but Kyle's eyes were unfocused; the man's mind in another world.

One which was fair and where wives and girlfriends didn't cheat, where high-school sweethearts didn't leave, and fall pregnant to another man; where service to your country didn't result in sterility, and the inability to ever Father a child of your own; where you didn't give the best years of your life to the Government, then get kicked to the kerb without a pension, unable to even afford the medication you were told you so desperately needed. A world where commitment meant something, and for that which you gave, you received in return; where anyone who broke those rules paid the price. That was Evans purpose, and tonight, another immoral, cheating bitch was going to die. Amy.

Whilst his victim's pain would eventually cease, that of her friends and relatives would live on. Collateral damage his superiors had called it; a necessary evil. And on that, Evan's agreed. If there were enough, people might finally sit up and take notice before the ethical decay of society sent the entire fucking world to hell in a hand-basket.

"You ain't going no-where until I get what I fucking paid for."

The harsh words snapped Evans from his reverie, and his head shot around to locate their source. Blue eyes fell on the entrance to an alleyway as he heard scuffling, and the higher pitch of a woman's voice. Most likely some whore who'd attempted rip the man off, and his first instinct was to walk on, and leave whatever was to happen, to happen. It was none of his business. However, something caused his feet to remain rooted to the spot, with eyes locked on the alleyway, as her words became louder and more frantic. Something familiar. A moment later Kyle Evan's, without even been aware he'd done so, had moved.

When he entered the dark lane, it was if he'd stepped into one of the vivid hallucinations which had plagued him in the Veteran's hospital on return from Afghanistan. The image of the madwoman screaming as she knelt over her victim and plunged the bloody knife into his chest over and over, causing blood, which appeared black under the soft glow of street lamps, to spray from a gaping wound and coat her face and clothing, was one from a horror movie. Kyle couldn't move, couldn't breathe.

His eyes closed, and he willed himself back to reality. Was he losing it for good this time? Was he truly crazy, as the Army Doctor's had claimed.

Deep breaths, and the shaking, trembling shadowy figure at the end of laneway re-opened his eyes. She was still there. Struggling to lift the limp, dead body into the open dumpster. It was real. It was Azairah. Kyle shook his head and opened his mouth to call out. Then it clamped shut as he recalled his mantra. Get close to no-one, allow no-one to get close to you, and you can't be hurt. So he watched in silence, then slid into the shadows as the blood-soaked killer passed by, so close that he could have reached out and touched.

As difficult as it was to comprehend that the woman he'd just seen murder a larger and stronger male and throw him in with the trash, then had the presence of mind to collect the knife and, seemingly with calm, make her way out of the alley, was the same raped and beaten victim who'd caused tears to stream down his cheeks as she'd been bullied, mocked and disrespected in the police interview room, Kyle was a man used to dealing with situations as they arose, and taking charge.

He hadn't been able to muster up the courage to speak, and assure her she wasn't alone, or to slip his arms around the damaged Azairah - who reminded Kyle so much of himself - and whisper that everything would be okay, but at least he could destroy all evidence of her crime. That she'd ended the life of a man was of no consequence; it was obvious the asshole had intended to rape her, and male or female, it didn't matter; the less scum left on the planet and allowed to breed, the better.

Evans checked the roads; still deserted; then stepped down the empty alley. As boots clicked on the pavement, he dipped a hand into his pocket, and removed a container of lighter fluid. Kyle remained calm and was careful to avoid the pools of blood at his feet as he opened the canister, and first drizzled the flammable liquid on the wooden fences, then turned to the dumpster.

He rifled through boxes and bags until the cold, dead eyes, wide open with shock, of the man who'd once been Mark Dubois, stared directly into his. The corpse's jacket and shirt were torn from the knife, and a deep ragged hole; coagulated with dark blood, and the edges of which resembled raw, shredded meat; lay where his chest should be. "What did she ever do to you?" Kyle spoke softly as he poured the remainder of the fluid along the length of DuBois body, and over the cardboard boxes which surrounded it. Then he stepped back, withdrew a cigarette lighter from his trousers, and thumbed the wheel.

Kyle remained in the alleyway until he could smell charred human flesh, and hear sirens in the distance.

His own victim would need wait for another night.

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Get close to no-one, allow no-one to get close to you, and you can't be hurt.

Kyle Evans, unable to get the scene, and Aizarah D'Amici, out of his thoughts, whispered those words to himself as he closed the door of his cottage, poured a whiskey, and glanced at the laptop which sat on a coffee table.

"No." His voice was strong, but heart resisted the mind, and he found himself sitting on the sofa, and drawing the computer closer. What harm would it do; reassuring her that taking the life of another human being wasn't always wrong?

Evans fingers tapped the keys of their own accord, and logged into his web-based email account. Somehow, someway, he must have known this was coming, or that he'd have reason to use it, for he entered the email address of the woman; gained from Police records; without conscious thought.

To: Azairah D'Amici
From: Anon666

Subject: Don't be afraid

Don't be afraid, I was there Azairah, and I took care of the evidence. The authorities will struggle to identify the victim, let alone the perpetrator. You're safe.

Please, feel no remorse, or pity; the scum deserves neither.

You did the right thing.

Made the world a better place.

Yours in sympathy

A kindred spirit

Evans clicked send, then fell back in his seat, expelled the breath he'd been holding, and closed his eyes.

Had he done the right thing?

Kyle watched the message disappear into the ether, then collected the whiskey bottle, poured another glass, and clicked on the 'sent items' menu. For the next hour, two, or three; he didn't track the time, the man just sat there staring at the screen, re-reading his message as the liquor bottle emptied. What was his purpose? If asked to express the answer to that questions aloud, he wouldn't have been able to. Even in his own mind, it wasn't clear. To help her, to hug her, to hold her and assure Zai that everything would be okay? Or was it because, underneath his pretences, and mantra, Kyle was an extremely lonely man who craved companionship?

Not the companionship he'd once had with Amy; the women he'd first met as sixteen year old, and imagined he'd grow old with, forever in love. Too much had occurred in the intervening years, and he was no longer the boy, or even the man, he once was. Kyle Evan's psyche had been too damaged to ever return to what others would call normality, and in Azairah D'Amici he'd sensed a similarity, and needed to reach out. Was it possible that a man such as he; who'd grown to enjoy killing, and made it his purpose in life; could find a soul-mate? Not one who'd grow to love him despite his depraved acts - if that were even possible - but one who understood and sympathised with his motivations, approved of the acts, and loved Kyle for them. A partner not only in life, but also in death.

Had he made contact as much, if not more, for his sake than hers, and was it all wishful thinking. Could a woman have enjoyed the taking of a human life, or had it only been the survival instinct, combined with fury, that had caused her to pull the knife. Would she do it again, with intent, or had the murder of the man in the dark alley assuaged the pain caused by the act Cole Douglas had perpetrated, and all she'd now feel was guilt and remorse? Would she think him crazy and sick, or would she empathise?

Those questions swirled through his alcohol fogged brain, without conclusion, until eventually the glass slipped from his hand, and his eyes closed, and he fell asleep on the sofa. For the first time in months, Kyle's sleep was without nightmares.

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The sun filtering through the kitchen window woke him up with the dawn. Kyle stretched, and his eyes fluttered then his entire body jerked forward, and he sat straight in the chair as his mind awoke with his body, and he recalled Zai and the email. He stared at the screen, where his email stared back at him, then slowly pushed himself up to get a glass of water to soothe his dry throat.

The ping of a message arriving; loud in the still and silent morning air; as he stood at the kitchen tap almost made him jump out of his skin. He placed the water glass in the sink, and felt a sensation of dread and excitement as he rushed back to the computer, and saw the response from Azairah. The first thing he noted was the abruptness, and her questions. What did he want, what benefit did he receive? Of course, the woman would be frightened and wary, and he'd need reassure her.

However, what was the point of only reassurance; Kyle also needed to discover if he'd gauged the woman correctly. After a few moments contemplation, the man decided to go ahead with what had initially occurred to him - what harm could it do to reveal his identity; it wasn't as if the murderess would run to the Police and identify him - and propose the offer to commit an act he'd contemplated since the incident with Cole Douglas. An act which, until now, had been too dangerously close to home for Kyle to seriously consider, but one that could help prove to Azairah that his intent was to assist; even if that assistance was of a depraved and twisted nature. Her response, or lack of one if came to that, would provide some of the answers he desperately ached to receive.

TO: a.damici@xxxxxx.com
FROM: Anon666
Subject: RE: Don't be afraid.

I'm not searching for benefit, at least not one that I can properly express, and I help because I empathise. My being there tonight was pure chance, though some could be tempted to call it fate. You are not the only murderer, Azairah, and I feel no pity or remorse for my victims. Some people deserve to live; some to die.

My name is Kyle, I was also at the Police Station, and watched through the one-way glass as you were bullied, harassed and belittled by Brock and Cole Douglas. When you stood, and I peered into your eyes and saw the pain, it was if I peered into a mirror of my own soul.

Cole Douglas deserves to die, as does his Father, and every coward who has ever done you harm. Along with every immoral, cheating slut and whore who opens her legs for any man, and offers encouragement for their kind to continue to perpetrate atrocities without consequence. I'm not a prude Azairah, just a man who believe commitment, principles and respect mean something.

When you stabbed your assailant in the alley, his blood spurted on your skin, and his heart ceased to beat, did you feel a sense of power, of righteousness; as if you'd done the world a favour? Do you crave to feel it again? Was it Cole Douglas that you killed also?

That man, if he can even be referred to as such, will die, either at my hands, or yours, but first he must be made suffer and experience the same pain he's caused others. However, his Father and allies are too powerful, and the resultant heat, if he were to be the victim of foul play, too intense, that to take action without thought and planning would be suicide.

Would you like him to be made suffer, Aziarah, without risk to yourself? Would it in some way prove that I had only your best interests at heart; that I intend you no harml?

But how?

Do you realise Cole Douglas has a girlfriend? A young woman by the name of Lisa Sharp. Cheerleader and Straight A-Student. She also attended the Station, and through the glass, I listened as she referred to you as trash, and asked what was a guy supposed to do? That it wasn't Cole's fault that every girl wanted to fuck him. Then she offered to provide him an alibi. Her own boyfriend. Laughing, and schmoozing, kissing and holding hands as she excused him for sleeping with another woman, and knowingly protected a rapist.

Believe me, she knew the truth, and didn't care. As long as she could remain on the arm of Mr Big-Shot High School Football Hero, and enhance her status, your pain meant nothing. The rape and vicious beating of an innocent meant nothing.

Do you think one who exhibits such a lack of morality deserves to live? Would the slow and painful death of his girlfriend cause Cole Douglas to suffer, or at least to open his eyes?

You are an innocent victim Azairah. I offer only my help, and search for someone with whom I can share my pain, and help soothe theirs.

I believe we are kindred spirits, but possibly it is just my imagination, and what I thought I recognised of myself in you, only a delusion.

Are we kindred spirits? Should Lisa Sharp's exist in this world? Should Cole Douglas suffer?

Kyle

Evans re-read his message, and closed his eyes as he went through every word of what he'd written. There was a chance it'd would send her totally off the wall, and possibly to even pack up and leave town, but in what other way could have he approached it? Best to get everything out and see where it led.

Your message has been sent!

He started at the blinking words on the screen, then lifted his gaze to the wall clock. He'd soon need shower and get ready for work, and with much effort forced himself to stand.

For the first time in almost two years, Kyle Evans felt an emotion he'd almost forgotten existed, and so very different from the sadness, anger, pain and emptiness; if the latter could be called an emotion at all; that his normal internal world consisted of. It was a sense of excitement, and anticipation, which sent a thrill through his body, and a chill down his spine. Akin to sexual arousal; sans the physical reaction. Kyle hadn't had that since Amy had deserted him, he'd been betrayed by the Army, and the last of his Government funded medication was used up. A once proud man stripped of everything that made him a man, in the space of three months.

The woman he tortured and killed were attractive, but they, or the acts he committed, had never aroused them. There was no sexual assault; he simply compelled them to their knees, and listened to them beg, plead, cry and scream with pain as they apologised for their immoral acts and lack of respect, before he finally ended their lives. They weren't his type, and though he'd contemplated adding to their agony, by taking by force what they so freely offered to others, the man had never gained an erection. He told himself it was because they were sluts, and he didn't want to catch a disease. Now, for the first time in so long, he felt the stirrings of sexual energy, simply from the email correspondence with Zai. A mental arousal. The other half of his whole.

His head fuzzy, and mouth still dry from the alcohol of the night before, Kyle removed the clothes he'd slept in, and stepped into the hot shower; recent events, and the offer to Azairah never leaving his mind. How would she react; had he gauged her correctly? Fifteen minutes later, he'd toweled himself off, changed into his work uniform of khaki's and a white cotton shirt in his bedroom, and re-entered the living space. The cottage consisted of a living room, bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen, and was located well off the main highway, with all the amenities, but quiet and private. The secret chamber he'd dug out under the foundations, and accessed through a trapdoor hidden under a rug in the sparsely furnished main room, was as large as the cottage itself.

Having learnt to compartmentalise, to fit into normal society, Kyle collected his keys from the coffee table, and switched his mind to work mode. Or at least attempted to. As he bent to close down the laptop, his heart skipped a beat when he noted the waiting messaged, and he dropped down into the sofa to read it. Zai's agony and anger bled through the screen.

With hitching breath, and eyes brimming with tears, Kyle hit the reply button:

TO: a.damici@xxxxxx.com
FROM: anon666
Subject: RE: Don't be afraid.

I understand your concerns, Zai, but I promise I am not here to blackmail or coerce. I have your name, and email address, do you not think that I am also aware of your home address, and if I intended harm that I would've come visit, rather than approach from a safe distance, and provide you the opportunity to flee? That isn't meant as a threat, just a statement of fact, and something for you to ponder.

Kyle paused, and blinked twice rapidly before his eyes drifted to the clock in the right hand corner. He only had a few minutes before he'd need to leave. Ever since he'd arrived in Eden, the man had been a conscientious, loyal employee, always punctual, willing to assist, and done nothing to invite suspicion or attention. He couldn't afford to be late.

I'm sorry to hear you've experienced so much pain, from so many. I'll likely never know what it's like to be raped; to have that feeling of helplessness, and violation that must haunt every minute of your live; both sleeping and awake. Just as you will never know how it feels to be disrespected, and emasculated by a woman, have her laugh in your face, and treat the man she loved, and who ever only ever wanted the best for her, as if he were nothing but a bug to be squashed underfoot.

Why didn't I assist you in the Police Station, you ask? In honesty, I was looking out for myself. I didn't know you, why should I help? What would have been the point? Not that I didn't wish to after I looked into your eyes, and in them, recognised myself. However, all evidence had been destroyed, the investigation compromised, and justice still would not have been done. I would simply have been confined to a prison for the remainder of my life.

There is no justice, Zai, except that which you take for yourself, and the only way to mete out appropriate justice is to remain free. That's what I offer you now.

Justice without Mercy, as it should be.

I sympathise with your hatred of men, just as I hope you'll be able to understand mine of women. Those who lack moral fibre, and contribute to the acceptance of the acts that the men you despise so much, perpetrate. However, not all women Azairah, there are exceptions to every rule, and you are one of those exceptions.

I am not a man who selects only the easy prey, or the weak. Men have died at my hands before, and I have no problem with causing that to happen again. I hate them as much as you. You want revenge on Cole and Brock Douglas, then I can help you achieve that. We can help each other achieve our purpose.

I suggest you ensure you have an alibi this evening, for tonight Lisa Sharp dies. Then I think we should meet, but that decision is yours. You can trust I am telling the truth, and select the time and location, or you can flee.

Do you wish to spend the rest of your time on Earth living alone with your pain, remorse and recriminations? Could I possibly harm you more than you've been harmed already?

Whatever your decision, this will forever remain between us.

Kyle

Message sent, Kyle Evan's switched the laptop off, and collected his gym bag, and a pair of black leather gloves that lay on the kitchen table. His DNA was on no database, but his fingerprints were on file, from his Army Service. The man had memorised Liaa Sharp's schedule, and unless he heard differently from Azairah in the meantime, by the end of that evening the vivacious and beautiful twenty-year old College Cheerleader, and Cole Douglas' girlfriend, would be a mutilated corpse.

Kyle had always had the ability to focus his concentration solely on that which needed to achieved at the time, and his Military service had only enhanced it. You couldn't afford to be thinking about your Sweetheart back home when you were embedded in a crumbling building, with other soldiers screaming, shooting and dying as mortar shells exploded all around you; otherwise the odds were you wouldn't survive to see her again. Although Zai had broken through his mental barriers, and remained constantly in his thoughts, as did the task ahead that evening, Kyle's inbuilt coping mechanisms remained strong enough for him to make it through the day at the station without arousing suspicion.

Whether the woman had responded to his email, he wasn't aware, and wasn't about to take the chance of accessing messages through the Police Department system. He'd provided enough information, for her, if she wished, or had second thoughts in regards to her role in Lisa Sharp's impending death, to contact him; although he realised that he hadn't mentioned his role in the Sheriff's Office. She probably assumed him a Deputy, which after her previous experience with Brock, Edwards and Noakes, had made Kyle even more surprised at her willingness to demonstrate trust, in her acceptance of his offer. That spoke to him of how deep her pain, and desperation to find someone with whom to share it, truly ran. As deep as his own.

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His shift completed at 8pm, Evans experienced the familiar thrill that came with the knowledge of what he was about to do. There was no emotion as such, no regret, remorse, or hesitation; his mind switched immediately to the new task at hand, the moment he'd exited the station. Kyle checked his watch, and drove back to his cottage to park the vehicle out front, then removed his gloves and gym bag, and jogged to Lisa Sharp's student apartment to await her imminent return from Cheerleading practice. This was the most dangerous part of the game, but Kyle was a man practiced in remaining invisible, and had a contingency plan if the presence of potential witnesses caused his first to not be viable.

However, luck was on his side, and the streets were quiet when Lisa Sharp arrived, and parked in her allocated space. Seconds after she'd stepped from the vehicle, and with her back to him, Kyle had emerged from the shadows, and before she'd even had time to become aware of his presence, the twenty-year old woman had been chloroformed, arms wrenched behind her back, cuffs snapped to her wrists, and bundled into the back of her own car. Kyle grabbed the keys, and slipped into the driver's seat.

The journey to his cottage was only a short distance, and the girl didn't awake until he'd lifted the rug to reveal the trapdoor, dropped her down the hole and heard the thud of her body hitting the dirt floor, then climbed down after her, bound Lisa's legs, arms and feet with rope; trussed like a Christmas turkey, with the bitch on her knees; wrapped a chain around her neck, attached the end to a hook in the wall, and struck her across the face.

By the time her eyes fluttered open, they were already blackened and bruised, and her nose broken, and Kyle almost laughed at her expression. It was one of shock, pain, and incomprehension. Her pupils widened, and she stared straight at him, but apparently without seeing, and her mouth fell open. She maintained that pose for a moment or two; then she screamed. And Kyle did laugh.

The scream quickly turned into sobs and squeals, and the girl's body jerked back and forth against her bounds in an attempt to escape, until her energy dissipated, the chain around her neck drew blood from the soft flesh it dug into, and her body went limp in a gesture of defeat. "What do you want? Please. Don't rape me." Every woman's worst nightmare. Lisa Sharp's whispered words were barely audible through her swollen lips, the blood that dripped from her shattered nose into her mouth, and the pants of terror and pain with which they were accompanied.

"You're not here for me to rape, bitch. I wouldn't want to catch anything. We're here to talk about Cole Douglas and Aziarah D'Amici. You know who she is, don't you Lisa? The girl your boyfriend raped. The one you gave permission to rape. Why the fuck do you deserve mercy or compassion when you refused to offer any to her?"

The young woman's head shook in the harsh grip he'd taken of her hair, and her eyes widened in confusion. However, it didn't take long for her to begin to comprehend Kyle's meaning; the removal of fingernails with a pair of pliers was a great motivator; and soon enough Lisa Sharp was grovelling, pleading, begging, screaming, sobbing and apologising for everything she'd ever done to cause pain. As well as for that she hadn't.

Not once did Kyle himself demonstrate mercy, compassion or care; not even when the girl coughed up blood, then fainted from the agony of his steel-capped boot smashing into her already broken ribs. All he'd done was collect a glass of water from the bucket which sat in the corner, threw it in her face, and continued when she regained consciousness.

Eventually, it was over.

The woman had admitted to the immorality of her acts, and repented for each and every one; she'd dump Cole, and if Kyle wished, even agree to wear a wire, and have him admit to his crime. To help put him away, and assist Azairah D'Amici; to atone, and make things right. Just, please, please, don't hurt her any more. Let her live, let her go free. Allow her the opportunity to make amends.

"Justice, without mercy."

Kyle had whispered as he'd shaken his head, then shoved the point of the hunting knife he'd held to her throat all the way through, with enough force to sever vertebrae and for the point to bed itself an inch into the mortar of the wall behind her. The serrated edge of the blade opened up a jagged hole, through which bright red arterial blood sprayed, and coated the cheap vinyl raincoat Kyle had attired himself in, and soaked into the dirt floor. The girl's dying scream whistled and gargled and gurgled through the newly formed orifice, without reaching her lips, and didn't cease until the light faded completely from her eyes.

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An hour later, the once beautiful and vivacious, twenty year-old cheerleader, with the long-blonde hair, bright blue eyes, perfect white teeth, and a body the subject of many adolescent fantasies, appeared more like a caricature of a Jackson Pollock painting; naked and beaten with legs spread and the word 'SLUT' carved deeply into her abdomen, fingernails ripped out, face bruised and smashed, ribs broken, knife wounds and rope burns on her skin, and head barely still attached to her shoulders by a few strands of raw, red flesh; splayed out on the grass of a small park, two blocks from Brock and Cole Douglas' residence.

Kyle had removed his blood-soaked raincoat at the Cottage, stripped off Lisa Sharp's clothing, then wrapped her lifeless body in cheap black garden plastic, and placed her in the trunk of her car. He was taking another chance, he knew, driving into the centre of Eden, and not dumping her corpse in a storm drain, or a shallow grave in the forest, where time and the elements would assist in washing away evidence, but Lisa Sharp was different from the others. Lisa Sharp was a message.

There were no regrets for the acts he'd perpetrated on the young woman, or the agony he'd forced her to endure; she'd deserved it. Just a sense of satisfaction and an easing of his internal anguish.

It was only when he'd jogged the five miles home, washed the remnants of the blood in the basement away with buckets of water, threw the clothing, both his and Lisa's, in the lit fire pit outside, and checked his email that Kyle felt anything but calm and in total control of his emotions. His fingers trembled when he saw the message from Zai, and he took a deep breath as he read it.

She understood.

He released the breath he'd been holding, and closed his eyes. She understood, but did she?

He wanted to reply to her, to answer everything that had been said, that she was right, and to let her know that Lisa Sharp was now dead; that he'd done it for her; but he couldn't. Kyle Evan's was scared. Now that he'd carried through with his promise, how would Zai react to the reality of it?

Her own murder had been one of opportunity, and happenstance, but his had been premeditated and violent. Once she woke up to the morning news; where it'd surely be the lead item; what would she think? Would she run, would she think that she'd gotten in too deep? Would she consider him crazy, and the violence scare her away? Evans wasn't concerned about her contacting the police, but that the depravity of his acts may have lost her. Was his concept of Justice without Mercy the same as hers.

The best way not to receive an answer you don't wish to hear, is to not ask the question, so instead of responding in full to the email, Kyle Evan's replied with only four lines:

TO: a.damici@xxxxxx.com
FROM: Anon66
Subject: RE: Don't be afraid.

It's done, Zai.

For you. For both of us. For Justice

The café on Emery St, Friday. I'll be there. I hope tonight's events did not turn you away.

If so, please forgive me.

Kyle
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The next few days passed in a blur. The town of Eden had never seen a crime like it. Ironically, on discovery of the murder of Lisa Sharp, and its brutality, Sheriff Brock Douglas immediately called upon the services of Forensic Investigators from the metropolis of Rome; something which he'd refused to do in the case of Azairah D'Amici.

There was barely time to breathe or think in those following days. The station was a madhouse, and along with his concerns that despite all the care he'd taken, and his own knowledge of forensics, he may have left evidence which would lead directly to him, he had to deal with a media circus, and assist in the logistics of the investigation. His own shock and disbelief that such an atrocity could occur in Eden was on par with that of the entire community, and he'd offered to do anything that he could to assist.

The high-point of that period, and something which caused him to struggle to keep a grin breaking out on his face, was the expression and demeanour of Cole Douglas, when he'd been called into the station. His eyes were reddened from tears, and his face the same colour from anger, and he'd screamed, and ranted, and threatened violence as he'd demanded his Father discover who was responsible. Cole Douglas would rip the animal apart with his own bare hands. Kyle only wished that he'd had the opportunity to film the performance, and send it to Zai.

Zai.

Kyle hadn't contacted her since that night of the murder. On the Friday, he dressed in a pair of jeans and a blue and white open necked shirt, and entered the Emery Café fifteen minutes before the appointed time. A quick scan of the room had revealed Zai had not made it before him, and Kyle wasn't certain if she come at all. Underneath the casual exterior, as he selected a table in one corner and ordered a coffee from the waitress, the man experienced a combination of nervousness, fear, excitement and adrenaline that he hadn't felt since he'd come under Sniper fire in Kabul, and watched his buddy's head explode like a ripe water-melon as Kyle dived for cover. The next shot had missed him by an inch.

Would she come?

Zai had selected the perfect place to meet. The Café on Emery Street, at that time of the afternoon, was quiet, which allowed Kyle to select a table in the corner, far enough away from the counter, and the two other occupied tables, as not to be overheard. Whether she would actually show up, was still in doubt, but Kyle believed that what they'd appeared to have recognised in each other was real, and she would.

His faith was bolstered by the fact that whilst coverage of Lisa Sharp's death was everywhere, and impossible to avoid - proof that Kyle was a man of his word - the newspapers, television and radio had not reported the true depravity of the girl's murder, therefore lessening the chances of having scared her away completely. What Azairah would think when she discovered that Lisa Sharp had been tortured and mutilated before she'd died, Evans had no idea, but he'd be sure to tell her; the woman deserved to be able to base any decisions upon the truth.

One thing Kyle was certain of, was that if the Azairah agreed to anything, not through a desire to get to know each other or discover if they were separate halves of a whole, but purely through fear of him or for her life, he would leave Eden far behind. The last thing he'd wish for would be to add to her insecurities and further damage the woman's psyche, and there were many other cities in which he could continue his work.

The daily newspaper, which Kyle had picked up from the counter on the way in, had a photograph of the blue-eyed blonde murder victim splashed across the front page, and the local television station blared the latest information from the scene, and continued to interview friends and family of the deceased. As if those close to Lisa hadn't suffered enough already; their pain would only be exacerbated by the constant reminder and questions, and the feeding frenzy caused Evans to smile. Good. Collateral damage.

Nature or nurture was a question which had still yet to be answered by Biologists, Sociologist and the like, but Kyle Evans strongly believed that those close to the victim(s) needed to assume some of the responsibility for the actions which had led to their death. Hence, they also needed to bear the consequences. How many it would take for the world to stand up and pay attention. Ten? Twenty? One Hundred? One Thousand? More?

If truth be told, Evans was aware, in the darkest recesses of his mind, that he would never stop, because apart from the purpose for which he killed, he had come to enjoy the perpetration of his acts. The first murder had been an act of vicarious revenge against his ex-wife, the second because he'd wished to have that feeling of power and control again, and with each subsequent victim, the arousal he experienced grew in strength. It had always been purely in a mental, rather than a physical sense. Until Lisa Sharp.

For the first time since he'd begun his spree, the man had gained an erection as he'd beaten and tortured the cheerleader. However, it had naught to do with her youth or attractiveness, but because of the reason she'd been chosen. With each strike of his fist, and cut of the blade, as she'd moaned, screamed, pleaded and begged for mercy, Kyle's hard-on had strained the fabric of his clothing. His actions weren't for himself, but for another. A woman. Kyle Evan's had once again became a man, and had taken on a man's task; protector and saviour of Azairah D'amici. That knowledge was what had brought about his reaction.

He'd considered raping the twenty year old, and inflicting on her the same terror and degradation that Zai had endured, however the thought that Zai may not approve had stopped him. Death and mutilation were fine, but sex was not. In a way, though his attraction to Azairah was only intellectual; as if he'd found the one person in the entire universe who could possibly understand his innermost fantasies and perversions; the idea of fucking Lisa Sharp, even it was purely for the purpose of humiliation and degradation, without Zai's approbation, struck Kyle as a form of cheating. Instead, he'd plunged the knife into the woman's throat, and brought an end to her misery.

He'd almost resigned himself to the fact that Zai wasn't coming, and a sense of loss had caused a pit to form in his stomach. His gaze was on the television, and he attempted to ignore the nausea which worked its way up to his throat; telling himself that he'd give her fifteen more minutes; when he felt a set of eyes upon him. He turned slowly, and the knot in his stomach unravelled, and his entire body tingled with excitement and anticipation. There she was. His blue eyes locked on hers, and held her gaze in silence for what felt like an eternity, before he inclined his head, and motioned for her to join him at the table.

The black dress, and the manner in which it accentuated her body, and her smooth caramel skin was, of course, noted, but of no great import to Kyle, and his eyes remained locked on her face as she seated herself. His throat was dry, and he coughed, then filled two glasses from water jug the waitress had placed on the table, and slid one across to Azairah. Finally, after he took a sip, his mouth opened to speak. There was no need to introduce himself to her; or she to him. "I guess you heard the news?"

Kyle nodded towards the television set, where Lisa Sharp's name ran across the screen, flicked his gaze around the room, to ensure they couldn't be overheard, then leaned forward with his elbows on the table. He closed his eyes momentarily, then re-opened them to focus on hers. "I killed her, and they haven't reported the half of it. She suffered, Aziarah, for hours, and in making her suffer, I also made Cole Douglas suffer. At least a little, and I'll be honest, I enjoyed it. Unlike you, I'm experienced, and I've believed for a long time that there are people in this world who deserve to feel pain, and made to endure agony. The greater the pain, the greater the justice. Does that make me crazy?"

He paused to shrug, then answered his own question. "Some would say yes, others would say no. What I can tell you, is that what I do is not done in a fit of rage, or unable to be controlled, and I have no intent to cause you harm. Like me, you're purely an innocent victim. It's done because I think I'm doing good. I have no belief in God, Azairah, and I don't believe I am God; I'm not deluded; but I do think I can make a difference, and rid the world of some of its filth."

Almost done with his speech, Kyle leaned back in his seat. "Does that scare you? Do I scare you, Azairah? Tell me, why did you agree to meet, what is it you seek?"