Four Minutes, J. C. Laird [young adult books to read TXT] 📗

At first she had fought with a teeth-clenching grimace, eyes slits of determination. She tried to claw at his face, but her arms were on the outside of his and couldn’t span the distance. Attempts at loosening his throttling grip with her hands failed. Finally, she had resorted to a wild pounding at his arms and chest with her fists, her eyes bulging in terror as she struggled for air; the realization that her death was imminent reflected in their depths. Her mouth was wide and gaping, struggling for the air that was so close, yet so far.

She had almost bucked him off twice. Her long legs had provided her with the leverage to arch her back and almost upend him. But Norman’s strapping six-foot frame, carrying a solid two-hundred-ten pounds, continued to pin her to the cement floor. Her frantic thrashings were weakening, hastened by the iron grip of his large hands around her throat. He continued to choke the life out of the squirming woman.

More pressure, his fingers tightening. One of her hands gripped a fistful of his shirt, the other beat feebly at his arm and chest, then a gagging sound, more of a vibration in her throat. He leaned forward on his arms, adding more weight and pressure on the neck beneath his tightening hands. Finally, a gravelly movement under his thumbs as the cartilage of her trachea was fractured and crushed. The writhing slowly stopped beneath him; one hand struck a last, ineffectual blow against him and fell, the other slowly loosened its grip from his shirt and dropped to the floor. Her horror filled eyes emptied and became fixed, staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

He maintained his hold for several more seconds, breathing heavily, his heart pounding like a trip-hammer, the exhilaration of the kill coursing through him like a wildly addictive drug. With an effort, he continued to bring his lethal excitement under control. He only had a few minutes, and he never wanted to miss this part.

He stood, took her hands and pulled her to a sitting position, moved around behind and, with a grunt, dragged her dead weight over to the old leather couch sitting along one wall of his basement. She was tall, and although slim, was toned and solid, and must have weighed a good one-hundred thirty-five pounds. He gripped her under the arms and lifted her onto the sofa, positioning her supple body in an upright, sitting position. He put a throw-pillow behind her neck to prop her head up.

Norman brought over a wooden chair and sat facing the young brunette, his knees between the splayed legs of the dead woman’s. He had retrieved her purse, rummaged through it and pulled out her driver’s license. He shook his head, laughing. “Dana Ryan Sanders”, he read. “Looks like your parents might have wanted a boy, and got you instead.”

Leaning forward and resting on his elbows he continued. “Well, Dana, I know you’re in there, screaming in the darkness. I read somewhere that after the lungs stop converting oxygen and the heart ceases to pump it—in short, after you die—there’s still enough oxygen remaining in the brain tissue for it to survive for several more minutes. You’ve read the stories. If someone dies, but you can revive them within a few minutes, they’re A-Okay. After four to six minutes, the oxygen starved cells begin to check out and irreversible brain damage will begin. As the minutes tick by, it’s a slow ‘fade to black’, until you’re totally kaput. They call it hypoxia.”

He looked at her, frowning. Her stare was fixed over his right shoulder, her mouth hanging open. He leaned forward, one hand resting on her smooth thigh just below her hiked, rumpled skirt, the other reaching and gently closing her mouth. His fingers lingered at her lips. “Nicole, my mother, always said that you’d catch flies with your mouth hanging open like that.” He left her eyes open; although her pupils were fixed, he liked to think that some sort of vision was still being processed.

His mind slipped gears. Beautiful Nicole had only been sixteen when Norman was born; his father had vanished before that regretful event occurred. His mother—who insisted that Norman always use her given name, even as a child—had never needed another man; she had Norman. Nicole’s sexual appetites were varied and voracious; little Normie was made to fill those appetites from early on. Her hungers became even more bizarre as Norman grew older, right up until she died in that “unfortunate accident” shortly after Norman turned eighteen…

He shuddered, shook his head, and brought himself back. “So, Dana, what’s it like in there? Your five senses aren’t working anymore.” He was now grinning, almost laughing. “Hell, of course everything’s on the fritz now; your central nervous system is shut down and those synapses aren’t firing in the ol’ brain anymore, are they? So, are you just screaming in the dark, waiting for the last of the oxygen to run out, waiting for the cells to start dying, teetering on the edge of that long journey into the abyss? When your brain starts gasping and you realize the slow, final death of you, will you go silently insane?”

No response from Dana. She sat gazing off into nowhere, permanently acquiescent, her blue skirt hiked midway to her hips, her white blouse half open from her struggles with Norman. Even dead, she was achingly beautiful, just like his Mommy…Nicole…Nicole always wanted her Normie to call her by her given name…he needed to remember that…Nicole…Mommy…

Norman licked his lower lip and stared at her. He leaned forward again. “I know you’re still in there Dana. You remember—you know what’s happening. I bet it’s probably like a sixth-sense or something—from a black and white reality to a post-mortem, short-term, grey.” He had watched her die on the outside, and imagining her final, terror-filled death on the inside was even more exhilarating. And he was going to add to that terror…

His breathing was coming in short spurts, his heart thundering in his chest, sounds of a rushing hurricane coursing through his head. He had a few more minutes. How many before her mind checked out completely and for good he didn’t know. If it started dying at around four minutes, or even six, how long before the last traces of her sentient being, her ‘soul’, vanished completely? Maybe ten? And since she was still ‘alive’ inside and somehow aware—he could continue to increase the horror. He was the god of her body now…and her trapped mind.

Dana had started to list to the side. He repositioned her limp and compliant body on the couch and adjusted her head slightly so that her dark eyes remained on him. “Your eyes are beautiful, just like Nicole’s,” he murmured. His fingers trailed back down to her mouth. “And your lips are just like hers, too.”

Norman ran his tongue over his teeth and stared at her. He could have a few more minutes of fun with her body. If her mind was still alive in there somewhere, then it wouldn’t really be necrophilia, would it? But desecration of the “dead” was illegal and…He threw his head back and let out a barking laugh. He was worried about “illegal” when he had just strangled his nineteenth victim?

He sighed, leaned back and looked at his watch. “Well, Nicole…ah…Dana, the oxygen in the ol’ brain should be running a little low about now. Does that magnify your terror as you realize the slow death of the last of you? Well, let me see if I can add a bit more horror to your final exit...”

A short while later, Norman and the brutalized corpse of his latest victim headed out the backdoor of his large, adobe home into the dark of a dry New Mexico summer evening. It was a clear night and the almost full moon would give him enough light to work by. His one-hundred-fifty acres of juniper and pinion covered property on a remote stretch of mesa—nearly twenty miles from the nearest town of Magdalena and fifteen miles from his closest neighbor—were certainly isolated.

When he came to a good grave site near his tool shed—an adobe structure matching his house—he leaned forward and let the body slide off his shoulder and flop onto the ground. Norman began digging Dana’s final resting place, whistling as he worked. He was sure

the last of her brain cells had departed. Too bad there weren’t any left to experience the dirt soon to be shoveled onto her body. He continued whistling while he worked. He felt good; this had been a fun one, the best yet. And revenge was so sweet: Norman – 19, Nicole – 0.

#

The new, Ford F-150 pickup, lead a cloud of dust down the rutted dirt drive as Norman navigated from his home to the county road, some three miles distant. It was a poorly maintained road; he probably should get it graded. He’d purchased the small ranch with some of Nicole’s life insurance and his Mega-Lottery winnings. Besides, he was a man of leisure now, had been for over ten years; his main interests were traveling and, of course, raping, torturing and killing beautiful, man-eating women. And there were, oh, so many of them. So far, he had made nineteen of them pay—in six different states—over the course of the last ten years. And the inept police were no closer to him than they had been a decade ago.

He turned up the radio; it was an oldies station and Norman began humming along with “Baby, baby, can’t you hear my heart beat…”

He was almost past the last turnoff when he saw an older red Chevy with its hood up, near a stand of trees fifty yards off the roadway. It was unusual to see any vehicles along his lengthy driveway; he had “No Trespassing” signs posted out by the main drag. But what really caught Norman’s eye was the tall, leggy blonde in the Daisy Duke shorts, leaning in and looking under the hood.

He stopped, backed up and pulled in behind the Chevy. He glanced quickly in the rear-view mirror at his tanned and handsome face and pasted on his most engaging smile. He ran a hand through his thick, dark hair, got out and approached the young woman.

The slim, attractive blonde turned and smiled as he approached. “This piece of junk started sputtering and coughing; I just managed to get it off the road before it died completely.”

Norman licked his lips nervously. Besides the blue, short-shorts, she had on a pale green blouse, tied in a knot below ample breasts, exposing a bare midriff. The blouse matched the color of her eyes. He kept his smile in place. “I’m sorry about the car Miss, but this is private land; didn’t you see the ‘No Trespassing’ signs out by the road?”

Her smile disappeared, replaced by a forlorn look. “I’m sorry, I was in a hurry to get to my friend’s birthday party over in Hillsboro; I was looking for a shortcut and must have missed the signs.” Now she was smiling again. “I can’t get any cell phone reception here. Do you live nearby? Maybe I could use your land-line to call a wrecker?”

Norman’s mind was racing. It had been almost a year since the last one, but it had been at the ranch. On his agenda for next month was a planned trip to Idaho for another go-round—another state that would have another unsolved murder. Only three had been disposed of at his house over the last ten years; he liked to spread things around. And, he’d have to get rid of her car…

She was back to looking under the hood, leaning in, bent over. Her body was mocking, taunting, a forbidden fruit luring him.