Black Sheep

The only thing that’s been keeping my sanity loosely stitched together today is the knowledge I’d be right here.

In front of Dr. Elijah Kaplan’s home.

He apologized, which for most people would be sufficient. But I’m not most people.

Besides, he went on to open his mouth. He didn’t realize I was a flight above him and Dr. Fletcher as they descended the stairs.

All I ask is that you take my kidneys first. Where do I sign?

My leather gloves squeak as I fold my hands into tight fists.

Kaplan is about to do some kind of eyewitness interviews, and he would do virtually anything to prevent me from coming along, even though this is directly related to my dissertation. Dr. Fletcher had to pull in more than one favor for him to even consider it.

What the fuck?

I need to know why. Why would he offer up his organs to get out of providing me with an opportunity to do my research? Why would he rather throw me to Dr. Fletcher like a scrap of meat to a stray dog? As soon as I received his email, I looked her up, of course, and I recognized her instantly as the woman I saw entering Kaplan’s home with him two nights ago. I didn’t like the unexpected swell of relief I felt when I found pictures of her wife, a surgeon at Vangrove Hospital. But that relief quickly drowned when I realized one more potential reason for his dismissive behavior had been swept away.

The more I think about it, the more I believe I’m still missing something. And whatever it is, it’s in this house.

I walk up to Kaplan’s door with the confidence of someone who is meant to be there. I don’t do any of that “checking over my shoulder” shit that you see in movies. That just looks suspicious. If I look like I’m meant to be here, I am.

I push the pin of my snap gun into the tumbler lock and the door pops open. Kaplan’s dog lopes across the floor on the other side, his nails clacking on the hard surface, his deep bark bouncing off the walls. I say some calming words and slip inside. The German shepherd flips his guarding switch to an excited greeting as he recognizes my voice and scent. It’s the first time I’ve been here, but I’ve met Duke before, in anticipation of needing to break in at some point. Getting a temporary job at Snyder’s Doggie Daycare certainly helped. I spent as much time as I could with Duke one-on-one, even taught him a few special tricks. The chopped steak in my pocket does wonders too, much better than the shitty commercial treats that Kaplan gives him. Duke may be a retired police dog, but even he can be won over. I smell and act like I’m meant to be here, and so I am.

I take in the space around me as Duke follows my silent footsteps into the darkness. Kaplan doesn’t have cameras or a security system. He relies on a dog and simple locks for that. It’s obviously a shortsighted approach.

There’s a night-light in the hallway, but it’s still dark enough that it takes a minute for my eyes to adjust. There are art prints and photos of adventures with friends and family lining the entryway. Kaplan with a group of guys in motorcycle racing gear. Kaplan and friends at the beach. Kaplan shirtless, holding a fish. I roll my eyes and proceed down the hall, tossing Duke steak bites as I go.

After a cursory glance, I bypass the living room with its “monochrome man” interior. There’s a lot of grey and black. But I’m pleased by the white bookshelves that are jammed full of books of every size and color. I don’t take more than a moment to peruse his reading tastes. The interesting pieces of a person’s inner life are rarely in a living room. They’re in the darker recesses, in shadowy corners and private spaces.

I give Duke another piece of steak and issue my own command to lie down and stay in the living room where he can see the front door. He does as he’s told. If Kaplan can use him as a security alarm, so can I. This is Kaplan’s soccer night with his “dude bros”. He doesn’t miss it, but who knows when he could pull a hammy and show up home unexpectedly.

I drift down the dark hall. The bathroom is first. Nothing of much interest aside from a basket of cheap toothbrushes and toiletries in unbroken packaging under the sink. There’s a box of tampons behind it, the cardboard flap covered in a thin film of dust. How thoughtful. He likes to be prepared for his lady guests.

After the bathroom is a bedroom across the hall. I enter and use the flashlight on my phone as the heavy curtains are drawn. The dim pool of light flows across the hardwood floor, then a grey rug, a pair of men’s slippers. The black stained wood of a simple nightstand. The matching platform of the bed. The headboard and a post that rises from it.

A silver grommet.

“My, my, Dr. Kaplan,” I say, bending to look more closely at the stainless steel ring. Scratches dull its surface. I stand and follow the line of the post, another grommet fixed to the top, close to where it joins a crossbeam. The four planks of black wood above me each have a grommet in the center and where the horizontal beams join the posts. At the foot of the bed, the platform extends beyond the mattress, a cushioned mat laying across the end.

Dr. Kaplan enjoys a bit of bondage, it seems.

“Who’d have thought it would be a fish guy.”

I notice drawers along the base of the bed and open each one. There’s a drawer for bedding. Boring. There’s one for restraints. Slightly more interesting. The dildo drawer doesn’t disappoint with its selection of sizes and shapes. There’s a whole separate drawer for strap-ons and anal toys. One small drawer for lubes. The last one I check is long and narrow.

My heart doubles its pace.

Whips. Spanking paddles. Floggers. I lift a coiled leather belt with my gloved hand. Acid churns in my stomach and climbs my throat. The scars on my back seem to heat and crawl within my skin. They whisper memories from the desert. Memories that have nothing to do with games.

I replace the belt and slam the door shut, folding my hands into fists as I steady my breathing, trying to recapture my self-control. My eyes press closed and I focus on releasing my tension. There is no one to punish me now. I am the one who punishes. I control my destiny. Whatever I wish to give or take, the power is mine to decide.

I rise from the floor and turn off my light as I leave the room, drifting further down the hall. There’s a guest room on the left side, the bed pushed against the wall, some weights and workout equipment waiting in the open space. On the other side of the hall is Kaplan’s home office.

I close the blinds of the window before turning on the desk lamp, checking my watch before I sit. Twenty minutes before Kaplan’s match finishes, another ten at least for him to get home. Maybe more if there are post-game beers, which is never a guarantee.

I open his laptop and pick up a photo on his desk as I wait for the computer to start up. His parents, I assume. Young Elijah Kaplan in the front, maybe twelve or thirteen, lean and gawky, but with a smile like he’s tempting a dare. And an older brother, their father’s hand on his shoulder. He’s angelic. Light brown hair, blue eyes, and pillowy lips in a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. The boys look so different in some ways, Eli’s features darker and more intense than his brother’s, where there’s a certain kind of tortured reserve in the other Kaplan child. But I can see some similarities too. Strong jaws and high cheekbones. Expressive eyes. Dimples. A sharp intelligence that permeates a static moment captured from the grip of time.

I place the photo back on the desk and examine another. Kaplan smiling wide and with Dr. Fletcher, her blonde hair flowing in a strong wind, a younger Duke sitting between them with his tongue lolling to the side. Another more recent photo with his dad, the two men shirtless at a beach house, his father looking a lot older than in the other photo. His eyes seem dimmer somehow, the lines of his face harsher. There’s an exhaustion buried deep beneath the skin, dragging it down.

My attention snaps back to the screen as the laptop finishes booting up and prompts me for a password. I pull out my phone and open my most recent text from Samuel, which would look like gibberish to anyone else. But to me, it’s a well-rehearsed code of scrambled letters. Our own pseudo-language. He’s listed Kaplan’s potential passwords, generated by keylogger software that was embedded in the file of my dissertation proposal. Like most people, Kaplan doesn’t use a vast array of passwords to secure his private life. The second option works.

DukeKaboom@Kap! 

For a man who is already a tenured professor at thirty-one, he really does some dumb shit.

“Did you think you were untouchable from the shadows in life, Dr. Kaplan? You entitled prick,” I whisper, opening his Outlook. “Well it’s touching you now, isn’t it. I’ll shove my finger so far up your asshole I’ll be working your mouth like a puppet.”

Kaplan’s email is rife with ass-kissing messages from students wanting to get the jump on class syllabi and assignments. I see my read message halfway down his inbox and scowl at the screen, the rage from his dismissal pulling my veins tight beneath my skin. But the one that catches my eye is a new email, one from Marta Espinoza. I open the thread and read from the bottom.

From: Marta Espinoza

To: Elijah Kaplan

Subject: Interview Confirmation

Hi Dr. Kaplan, 

Please follow the encrypted link for the files you requested on Legio Agni and use your login ID. We have approval for the first two interviews to take place in Ogden, so please confirm your availability for October and I will arrange the details on our end. We need to secure further dates from the last witness. I’ll keep you posted. 

Has Berkshire approved your sabbatical? I’ll let Robert know if so. We’re eager to move the timeline faster, if possible. 

Let me know if you need anything else.

Best regards,

Marta EspinozaContent © NôvelDrama.Org 2024.

Special Agent, FBI

From: Elijah Kaplan

To: Marta Espinoza 

Subject: RE: Interview Confirmation 

Hi Marta, 

Thanks for sending. Second or third weekend in October is fine, whichever works better for the interview subjects. 

Berkshire has approved, start date effective December 20th.

Do you have further details on Caron Berger that you’re able to share? Robert mentioned some early online activity on Discord before he pulled back from public platforms. Would you be able to send if so? I want to ensure I have all available information before we move to Phase 2. 

Thank you,

Dr. Kaplan 

And then today’s new message:

From: Marta Espinoza

To: Elijah Kaplan

Subject: RE: Interview Confirmation

Hi Dr. Kaplan, 

Understood. When I speak to Robert next week, I’ll see if there’s anything further on Berger, and I’ll ask him about the interview support we discussed. I’ll send once received. 

I’ve added the files regarding McCoy and Hutchinson to the link, in case you need them. I’ll keep you posted about any project accelerations. If Berger is cleaning house, we’ll need to move quickly. 

Best regards,

Marta Espinoza

Special Agent, FBI

I sit back in the chair, placing my fingers to my temples.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit. 

My instincts about his evasions related to his sabbatical were correct. There was something he didn’t want to share. Something big. Something very secret.

Kaplan is coming after my target. He’s coming for Caron Berger, and he has the FBI behind him.

A heavy darkness settles into my chest. A cult like Legio Agni was always going to garner the attention of authorities, but I wasn’t prepared for an active operation from an organization that also enjoys hunting individuals like me. Ones with my proclivity for killing. And the fact that Tristan has already shown up on their radar is somewhat disturbing, though the one silver lining is that they seem to believe his disappearance was Caron’s doing. The measures Samuel has put into place to cover our tracks must be working.

I don’t click on the encrypted link. As tempting as it is, I can’t be sure it won’t set off some kind of alert. And I highly doubt his login for super-secure FBI files is “Duke Kaboom.” I mark the message as unread and then start rifling through his OneNote and saved documents, transferring anything that looks potentially useful to my phone.

And then I find an interesting folder.

It’s entitled “Past Tax Records,” and I open it intending to snoop through Kaplan’s annual earnings from Berkshire.

But that is not what I find.

At all. 

Most of the files are still shots of a woman in black lingerie on Kaplan’s bed. In some, she’s chained by cuffs on her wrists and ankles, in others she’s free. She’s beautiful and sexy with hunger or pleasure or power or even desperation in her eyes. A few of the files are videos. I click on the first one.

The woman starts the recording and slinks away from the camera with a playful smirk. Music is playing at a low volume. Kaplan is naked in the background on his knees, adjusting a DSLR camera. The woman crawls toward him. “Take my picture, Eli,” she says in a husky voice.

Kaplan raises the camera and the woman begins posing, lifting a shoulder, pushing her breasts together, leaning toward the camera, lacing her fingers through her hair. The digital shutter clicks as Kaplan takes photo after photo, and then his voice spreads through the sounds of music and rustling bedding. “Pull down your bra and show me those gorgeous tits. That’s right, baby. Now spread your legs for me. Pull your thong to the side and show me that pussy.”

Everything Kaplan asks, the woman does eagerly. She plays with her nipples. She bends over and points her ass to the camera, caressing her skin as she looks back at her photographer with a playful grin. And when she’s had enough, she straightens her lingerie and turns, crawling to the center of the bed, holding out her hands in an offering to Kaplan. He sets the camera on a nightstand and takes a chain from each side of the suspended frame, clipping them to the links on her black cuffs on her wrists.

“Pull them hard three times if you want me to stop,” Kaplan says as he demonstrates with the slack of one chain. The woman nods, her gaze trained on Kaplan’s movements as he takes a condom from the nightstand and tears the foil of a condom wrapper open with his teeth. He spits the ripped end off the side of the bed as he pulls the latex out of its pouch and then rolls it over his erection. They look at one another for a long moment as Kaplan strokes his long, hard cock. I can’t see much of his face, but I can see hers, and it lights with a ravenous grin.

And then it begins.

They kiss with fiery heat. Kaplan lowers the cups of her bra and her generous breasts spill out. He licks and sucks them as she moans. He teases her with his fingers, dancing them across her ribs and up her thighs. She laughs when his touch tickles. And when it finds her center to rub her clit and delve into her pussy, she moans. Kaplan fucks her with his fingers and sucks on her breasts until she’s writhing.

“So wet, baby. Tell me what you want.”

“I want your cock. I want you,” she whispers, and Kaplan growls with desire as he withdraws his fingers to taste her.

“I can tell,” he says.

I watch as he pulls her thong to the side and holds it there, wrapping his free arm around her back. And then he slides into her.

The woman moans and gasps and squirms in her chains as the rhythm builds. But it’s not the woman who interests me. It’s Kaplan who I’m riveted to. There’s an energy in him that swims beneath his skin. He moves with the fluid grace of an animal. He has a beast to unleash, but he’s holding onto it tight.

I wonder if he’ll let it go.

I lean back and keep my eyes on Kaplan’s broad back and his tight ass, his muscles rippling as they power him through each thrust. I pull the glove from my hand and slide my palm beneath the waistband of my leggings. My fingers slip through the arousal gathering between my thighs and I draw them back up to my clit, circling the bundled nerves as I watch the couple on the screen.

The woman’s moans grow louder as Kaplan’s pace quickens. That beast of his is coming closer to the surface. It’s in the tension of his back and the way he whispers and moans, like it’s determined to claw its way out. But he’s still not ready to let go.

Pleasure curls low in my belly. I want to see what he can do.

“I’m gonna come,” the woman says. Her voice is tight as her hooded eyes find the camera and she looks right at me over Kaplan’s shoulder.

“Oh you like that, do you? You like the thought of me watching this over and over, don’t you, baby,” Kaplan says. She nods playfully, but her motion is jerky as her muscles clench with the orgasm that tears through her. She keeps her eyes on the camera as long as she can, until her head rolls back and pleasure consumes her. Kaplan works her through it, slowing his strokes. He reaches to one of her cuffs and releases one chain and then the next. She grips his shoulders and he lies her down on her back. She’s boneless and sweating as he stays buried within her. “Good girl. But we’re not done yet,” he says.

Kaplan brings her wrists together above her head and clamps them both to a single chain that’s waiting from the head of the bed, lying like a snake across the sheets.

“Tap your hands on the mattress three times if it’s too much,” Kaplan says, waiting until she nods her consent before he starts his thrusts again. His palms flow across her stomach and worship her skin. They glide to her breasts and explore their softness and the tight peaks of her nipples. Then they come up to her neck and fold around her throat.

Yes.

I can see it, that beast within him right there at the surface, finally getting what it wants. I edge closer to an orgasm as Kaplan squeezes the woman’s throat, his rocking thrusts railing into her with so much power and grace. The woman gurgles a moan and Kaplan’s grip tightens as he growls.

And then she taps out.

Kaplan’s fists immediately release from around her throat and she clears her discomfort with a quiet cough. He asks her if she’s okay and she says she wants to keep going, but I can see the tension in Kaplan’s body. He’s wrestled that demon deep beneath the surface. When he places his hands back around her throat, it’s only for show. All the tension that should be in his hands is now in his back and his shoulders. I feel the loss of that freedom through the screen. I feel it in me. The powerful orgasm that was building just moments ago has fled.

I let out a frustrated sigh and slide my hand out of my leggings as I watch Kaplan and the woman orgasm together. I put my glove back on and close the file, covering my tracks as I go. I’m just shutting the computer down when I hear Duke’s claws on the floor, scrambling toward the door.

Kaplan is home early.

Shit.

The dog bounds down the hall as the lock clicks open and Kaplan enters his house. He gives Duke an enthusiastic greeting as I turn off the lamp and open the blinds I closed earlier.

I tiptoe toward the hallway. My heart thrums in my chest. I bend down at the door frame, squatting low, shifting to the edge so I can look down the corridor. If Kaplan glances this way, it will be less likely that he’ll see me watching when I’m not at eye level.

He doesn’t look in my direction as he passes the mouth of the hallway, heading for the back of the house with Duke at his heels. I hear the sliding door to the fenced yard unlock and open as he lets the dog outside.

I get up and drift silently to the guest room across the hall, and then I shimmy myself under the bed until I’m up against the wall.

There’s only a half-inch of space between my face and the bed frame. I close my eyes and take a deep breath but my chest touches the metal slats.

My eyes shoot open and the bed feels like it’s pressing down on me. There isn’t enough air here. My heart is hammering so loudly that I can barely make out the sound of Kaplan rummaging in the kitchen. It feels like insects are crawling beneath my skin. All I want to do is scramble out of this place before it closes in around me. I try pressing my eyes shut again and slowing every breath.

Accept your punishment. It is God’s will. 

I fight the memories away, but I can still feel it. The pebbles of the desert earth against my scars. The metal box closing around me.

Think about your wickedness and repent. 

I swallow. I try to calm the storm brewing in my chest. I’ve practiced for moments like this. I need to do what I have trained for. To overcome.

You are not Ava anymore, Samuel’s voice calls as I search for my safe place in my mind. You are Sombria. You must not let the circumstances around you dictate your success. Turn that which you fear into your armor, Bria, and it will protect you. 

I’m safe here. I can get out if I need to. There is no lock. There’s no one to forget me in a box I can’t get out of. I’m not trapped. I chose this hiding place.

My choice.

I’m safe. I’m safe. 

I hear the distant voices warbling from the television in the living room and I keep repeating these affirmations to myself, Samuel’s guidance hovering in the distance of time. Turn that which you fear into your armor, Bria. My breathing deepens and my heart rate slows as I focus on those early lessons with Samuel as he whittled away my layers like a knife through green wood. He found every fear and gave me the weapons to kill it. Now I just have to apply what I’ve learned.

Time slows down. The television drones on. And I wait, still, silent, deadlier by the second as I gain control and force myself to embrace this little fortress of shadow.

This is a keep. I am the dragon of my castle.

A few hours pass. Kaplan turns off the TV and heads to the bathroom. Moments later, he pads across the hall to his bedroom, Duke’s claws ticking along behind him. The light clicks off, the covers shift. I check my watch. And with the gradual passage of time, silence.

When fifty-five minutes have passed, I start to slide out from under the guest room bed. This should be enough time for Kaplan to be in Stage Three: deep sleep. Dreamless and hard to wake from. If he does, he’ll be groggy, and I will steal any precious seconds I can if I need them.

When I’m free of the shadows of the bed I stand, stretching my tight muscles, and then I wait, listening. No sound comes.

I pull the capped syringe of succinylcholine from my jacket pocket and creep from the room, pausing before I enter Kaplan’s bedroom.

Duke’s head lifts and his tail thumps against his cushioned dog bed when he sees me. “Lehni. Zustan,” I whisper. He lays his head back down, his tail still swishing softly. I smile, pleased that the commands I taught him have stuck.

And then I turn to Kaplan.

His back is to me, his breathing heavy and even. He’s in deep sleep, just as I’d hoped. The blanket lays across his shoulder, his jugular exposed. My eyes have adjusted sufficiently to the darkness that I’m confident I can stick him with enough accuracy that I’ll be able to escape his reach before the paralytic sets in.

Death whispers from the dark corners of the room. Succinylcholine, it says.

Yes. Succinylcholine. Known affectionately to certain people like me as SUX.

I drift closer. A lick of desire curls across my heart. I uncap the needle.

I should take this chance. I might not get another. The postmortem will find the triple dose of SUX. The medical examiner will know it’s murder. The investigation will begin. No forced entry. They may find my hair under the bed, but no prints. The tread of my shoes through the house, but that would only tell them my estimated weight and height. I’m not on any system, so there will be no DNA match if I leave anything more substantial behind. No reason to suspect me and every reason to believe that Legio Agni caught up with an expert witness for the FBI and decided to take him out. Computer forensics won’t tell them much either. If they find the keylogger software, it will lead them on a wild goose chase. Samuel is too precise to bring them back to us.

I can do this. I just have to inject and run; stay hidden for forty-five seconds as the drug takes effect.

I place one knee on the mattress and poise the tip of the needle over Kaplan’s jugular.

Death tightens its grip on my hand. Succinylcholine.

Kaplan’s slow, gentle breath rolls across the pillow. His scent rises up to me. Bergamot. Bay rum. Rich and lush. It feels almost like a sin. Not to kill the man, but to take the essence of something darker that sleeps beneath the surface. When I watched that video, I saw a creature not all that different from me.

I bring the needle a little closer.

Is this how Samuel felt when he first found me? 

That sudden thought hits me like electricity. My hand jerks away from Kaplan’s neck.

Aside from Samuel, I’ve never met anyone even remotely like me. Kaplan’s darkness is different, yet it feels familiar. He has a cache of shadows too. They beg to be let out. I can almost hear them, like the vibration of an engine on the other side of a window pane. When I was a child, the Disciples of Xantheus said the soul radiates essence. Mine never radiated anything at all, or so they told me. But looking at Kaplan, seeing the darkness that was ready to tear free of his skin in that video with the woman, I wonder if the DOX pseudoscience bullshit was onto something after all. Because his essence calls to mine. Could he have sensed it too when we met? And did it frighten him? Maybe he saw that my soul is a shade too dark.

I slump a little. The tension of anticipation dissolves from my arm.

I despise him for standing as a barrier between me and my work, and now my justice too. I hate the feeling he gave me of not measuring up.

But I can’t kill him. Not before I’m sure what I felt was real, at least. And if he is like me, with a soul of shadows? Maybe I’ll spare him for good, just to know another like me is nearby.

I cap the needle. I back off the mattress and pocket the syringe. It takes a long moment before I turn away and walk toward the bedroom door.

The rustle of fabric stops me on the threshold. “Bria,” a groggy voice says behind me. My blood freezes and drops into my stomach like shattered crystals. I grip the syringe and prepare to strike.

Kaplan’s still asleep. He’s turned over, facing me, but his eyes are closed and the cadence of his breath is unchanged. Adrenaline surges through the chambers of my heart and a tremor shakes my lungs.

He’s passed into REM sleep. Just a dream.

I watch for one moment longer, and then I back away with slow and careful steps. I walk out the front door, leaving it unlocked behind me. He’ll wake up and wonder if he forgot. He’ll be sure he turned the lock, but he’ll pass it off as a blip, nothing more than his imagination.

I stride into the night, thinking about how much I liked the sound of my name in his dreams.

And how much I hate it when he says it in the light.