COMPULSION

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Below is a new tale from SemperAmare, the writing name we, being Vandemonium1 (Van1) and CreativityTakesCourage (CTC), use when we co-author a story.

Please Note: Some of the content of this story may evoke strong reactions.

CTC takes full responsibility and apologises in advance for this story which is quite dark. She’s blaming it on having binged on crime thrillers, both on Netflix and in the novels she’s been reading.

Meanwhile, Van1 is looking into moving overseas…

Regardless of subject matter, we hope you will sit back, relax, maybe have a drink, and enjoy a little escapism with us.

This one has been independently rated at 5/5 pickaxe handles.

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PROLOGUE

BROOKE REGARDED HERSELF in the bathroom mirror. She was flushed and dishevelled. She held her breath and stood perfectly still. She knew that the smallest movement, even the merest thought, and the zing in her belly, the nerves strung so tight they were like a corset, would twang.

She inhaled. Her nerves jangled. She heard the sound in her head. It was loud. She broke eye contact with herself and looked over her shoulder in the reflection to the bed. It was a mess. Her husband lay sprawled amongst the tangle of sheets. Brooke tilted her head, still watching him, and listened for sounds. Through the clanging of her nerves the sounds came to her quietly, like waves on the evening breeze: slow even breaths. Brooke smiled, smug. She’d fucked him good. More than once. More than twice, actually.

She always did the night before he was due to go away on business. She liked to send him off happy and sated. She liked in the day or two following his departure to experience the twinge in her core that only came from vigorous and repeated sex. The hollowness, the ache, it was like carrying a piece of him around with her.

And that was important.

It intensified her excitement, her arousal, to still feel him while she flirted with other men, while she did the dance of words.

Brooke returned her full attention to her reflection. She was amazed. Other than the dilation of her pupils and the flush to her cheeks she looked the same. The same as she always had. Hair, dark and shiny, just brushing her shoulders. Glossy waves that framed her face. Dark eyes. Thick lashes. Defined eyebrows. Full lips and high cheekbones. Attractive. Striking. Somehow Brooke expected her thoughts to be visible, there in her eyes, on her skin, her lips.

She raised her hand and pressed her fingers to her cheek. She felt the smoothness, the warmth. Her nerves quivered and twanged. The excitement made her feel sick. It was like first love. Like when the anticipation of seeing your lover is almost unbearable. Scared and sick and excited at the same time. Emotions swirling. Alive. Soaring. Like that first hit when the drugs hit your bloodstream. A rush.

An addictive rush.

It had been so long. So long since she’d experienced the rush. The taboo excitement. God, how she’d missed it.

Brooke glanced again at her husband. Part of her wished she could make him understand—she genuinely didn’t want to hurt him—but the greater part, the honest part, knew it had to be illicit. It needed darkness. It thrived in dark corners, shadows. In lies. Openness, honesty, light… permission; they were enemies of her excitement, her lust. Her addiction.

Brooke swallowed, tasting her desire. Not long now. The last six months of seduction, of slowly escalating flirtation, was soon to be fulfilled. Months of words. Initially tentative, enquiring. A testing of the waters. And then the delicious, slow, sensual dive into lust. The submersion into sexy words. Hot, dirty, enthralling words. Seductive words. Words that made her want to touch herself. All leading to one end.

Consummation.

Consummation of her deepest, darkest desires. Desires her smart, funny, loving husband could never satisfy. How could he? They were base. He was cultured. They were slutty. He was romantic. They were perverted. He was refined.

And she needed to face her husband the next morning over breakfast.

It had been so long since she’d felt this way. It had been five years between drinks. It was like the first time all over again. Last time she became careless. Last time she lost perspective and her husband found out and she’d hurt him. She’d almost lost him. It had taken years to win back his trust.

She wouldn’t let that happen this time. This time she’d be smarter. More discreet. Brooke smiled at herself in the mirror. Thank you, Ashley Madison, for providing people like me with a safe place to meet like-minded souls.

Brooke closed her eyes and pictured her dance-of-words partner. He was handsome. Sexy. Reminiscent of her husband. A little darker. A little more rugged. And a whole lot more dangerous.

Brooke touched herself. She was still sticky from the earlier lovemaking with her husband. She shivered, aroused. Tomorrow it would be her lover touching her in her most secret places. Stroking her. Penetrating her. Her nerves quaked, the sound discordant in her head. She bit her lip to suppress a moan. It wouldn’t do to wake hubby now.

She loved it. Loved the feeling. The fear. The anticipation. The possibility of being discovered. Embracing the forbidden. All of it. She was Suzette, Crepe Suzette, aflame and ready to be served up as the most delicious dessert.

Brooke was so glad her soon-to-be lover had persevered, that he took the time to overcome her reservations. To court her. It was going to make the consummation of their sordid dance all the sweeter. If dirty could be sweet. If perverse could be sweet.

*****

THE HUNTER

The Hunter thanked the gods once again for Ashley Madison. It made selecting his prey just so boringly easy. When your quarry are cheating wives, where else would you go except the biggest, most degenerate cheating slut website on the planet?

He reviewed the profiles of the three ladies of questionable virtue he was currently stalking. All fit his profile: brown hair that barely skimmed their shoulders, dark eyes, lush hips, rounded thighs, and big tits. Just his type.

The Hunter wondered which of the three would be the first to give in to her sordid desires and thus become his sixth victim. Number five had been a mere two weeks prior but already the compulsion to see the light disappear from another set of lying eyes as he strangled them was becoming increasingly unbearable.

He took a sip of his bourbon, swirling it around his mouth before letting it drip down his throat, relishing the burn as he laid bets with himself on which of the ladies it would be. Would it be the one calling herself Karen? Even though he’d only been corresponding with her for a few days the gal was hot to trot. He surmised he wasn’t her first rodeo. Not an hour since, he’d authorised her to see his photo. Well, he called it his photo. It was actually of someone better looking. More rugged than he was, but by the time someone like Karen found that out, it would be too late. Far too late.

Through the early conversations he let would-be cheater direct the conversation. The decision to cheat had to be theirs. Once that choice was made he’d try to lead them toward his preferred end goal – a tryst at their house. While their husband was away, of course.

He loved the irony of that scenario the most. The realisation that they were dying on their carefully prepared marital bed, rather than being fucked stupid on it. Delicious for him. Not so delicious for the cheater.

Unfortunately, he’d only managed that once, with his second dance partner. What was her name? Susan? Sarah? Who cared? The broad was so stupid, she didn’t even realise he wasn’t the guy in the photos.

He’d left the skank on the bed while he retrieved a carry-on case from his car which was parked in her garage before going room by room to remove her online life. First was the slut’s computer, followed by her tablet from the bedside table, and her phone from the charger in the kitchen, thus removing all electronic traces of himself. No need to make it too easy for the cops by giving them a hard drive to search or a browser history to follow. They’d know about him when he was good and ready.

He’d stashed the case back in the trunk before retrieving a bottle of bleach, gloves, a garbage bag, and a small vacuum. Starting in the master bedroom, he removed the sheets, remade the bed with a fresh set, and repositioned the cheating slut. He wiped her down with bleach with no more feeling than he did the door handles. He washed glasses and vacuumed the floors as well as the furniture, even the pieces he didn’t touch or sit on. You could never be too careful.

Three of the other four hadn’t been as stupid as number two but hadn’t been the smartest either. Rather than meet him somewhere public and neutral, somewhere safe, they’d arrived at his motel room like lambs to the slaughter, wits obviously dulled by lust. Driven out of their minds with the anticipation of being treated rough like whores and serviced by his ten-inch cock. Yeah, right.

His strike rate with the Ashley Madison cheaters was better than most because he knew the secret. There were thousands of ‘good girl’ wives out there that were ladies for their husbands but were itching to release their inner slut. By hooking up with a stranger who only wanted them for a no strings attached fuck, by being ‘taken’, they could justify their wanton behaviour to themselves as being given no choice. And they didn’t have to face the guy over the breakfast table the next morning.

So, how is that working out for you, bitches?

Two of the three had walked easily into his dimly lit motel room but one had balked at the door and had to be subdued when she saw he differed from the photos he’d sent her.

He’d used a false name and paid in cash for the rooms, a different room, different motel for each dance partner. He’d even disguised himself with a blond wig and stuffed some padding under his shirt to give himself a beer belly. Meticulous was his middle name.

And, as always, there was the cleaning afterward to remove all trace of himself.

The final one had thought she was being smart by meeting somewhere neutral. The silly bitch chose a dimly lit park at night. Dumb. So dumb. The Hunter could only hazard a guess that she, like those before her, had been so worried about someone from her “good wife” life seeing and recognising her that she’d failed to see the danger she was putting herself in. Regardless of her motives, by the time she saw him in a light good enough to realise she’d been duped it was too late. Her body was found in bushland several days later.

The Hunter knew he’d taken a risk with number five. He should have let that one go. It was much harder to control his environment when it wasn’t enclosed by four walls. But the hunger, the compulsion, had gotten the better of him.

Each of his dance partners had used a false name of course, but all had brought their purses with them, effectively giving him their real names and addresses. And their house keys. A quick trip to ensure husbands weren’t home and those keys had given him incriminating phones, tablets, and computers. He did so enjoy his souvenirs.

In a way it was depressing how stupid those five had been and how predictable the current three he was stalking were acting. The next to fall was most likely going to be Karen, his latest dance partner, but it could be Monica. He’d been doing the dance with her for a couple of months now. She wanted to be wooed. Seduced. To pretend it wasn’t her fault she wanted a bit of strange.

It was too much to hope that the one calling herself Crepe Suzette would be the next to fall. His stalking of her had been going on the longest. Several months, in fact. She was an accomplished flirt. Pulling her victim in, then pushing him away. Painting pictures, sexy, dirty pictures, with her words. She kept dangling the carrot, making promises, giving assurances that she was just waiting to be certain that her good old hubby wouldn’t catch her.

Suzette indicated she was interested in a longer-term affair. She had a long list of kinks she wanted to work her way through. She’d described them in vivid detail. The question was, would her perversions also mean she’d want her lover to take her in the marital bed if hubby was away? He thought the chance was high. What was it she’d written? That’s right – there’s nothing quite like doing the dirty in the marital bed. That in the past the act had made her hot for weeks afterward.

The Hunter anticipated the day would come when her lust would overcome her care.

The kaleidoscope of his memory stirred his need in the present to levels that tempted him to not follow his carefully calculated precautions.

The Hunter closed his eyes and moaned, the thought of ridding the world of yet another cheating slut was like a shot of heroin in his veins.

*******

THE INVESTIGATION

“Fuck, I hate that smell, Reg.”

“You get used to it.”

“How long do you reckon?”

“Hard to say but based on decomposition probably ten to twelve days.”

“Any signs of rape?”

“She’s too decomposed. I won’t know until I get her to the lab and can do some tests.”

At that, a young, fresh-faced, uniformed constable hurried up to DCI Burns, holding a sodden handbag.

“Sir, we found this between the carport and the cabin.”

DCI Burns glanced at the constable’s hands. “Good, you’re wearing gloves. Carefully look inside, son. I bet there’s still a purse in there, isn’t there? Don’t pull it out or even touch it.”

“But, Sir, if we look inside the purse there may be identification of some sort. Won’t that help us confirm the identity of the victim?”

“Yes, but with any luck the killer had a look inside too. We don’t want to risk smudging a possible fingerprint or dislodging a hair, losing it on a gust of wind.”

“I see, sir.”

“Keys or phone?”

“Not that I can see, sir.”

“Didn’t think so.” DCI Burns sighed. “Bag it and get it to Forensics.”

The young constable nodded. “What are you thinking, sir?”

“I’m thinking this lady here is Monica Smith. It’s her car and she fits the description. Her husband reported her missing on the 10^th. He came back from a golfing weekend to find his wife and the family computer gone.”

“Then why did it take twelve days to find her?”

“This cabin belongs to a cousin of hers. Husband didn’t think of it as they’ve only visited it twice in the last five years. According to hubby, wife wasn’t much into camping and roughing it and the cottage is pretty basic. We only found out about this place at dawn this morning when the neighbour got up to go fishing and noticed the same car parked here as last weekend. He didn’t recognise the vehicle as belonging to the owners. Apparently, the owners usually let him know if they’re lending the cabin out to family or friends, so thinking it might be someone who didn’t have permission he trotted over and found the door open.”

All three men looked down at the pathetic remains of what they were confident was Monica Smith.

“The Strangler again, sir?” asked the constable.

DCI Burns nodded sadly. No matter how many crime scenes he’d attended the sight of a life taken violently still affected him deeply. It was his sense of justice that had led him to the police force in the first place.

“Doesn’t he normally dump the bodies in the bush somewhere?”

“There’s an assumption there that the killer is a ‘he’, Constable.”

The constable reddened and DCI Burns took pity on him. This was probably the young man’s first murder scene and most definitely his first serial murder case.

“But that’s a pretty safe bet, son. To answer your question, we know of six victims. Five from within 150km of here and another one from Melbourne. Only one was found in bushland. That was the last one which is probably why you thought that was his modus operandi. But our guy is versatile. Adapts to his surroundings. Three were found in cheap motels. And one in her house.” He looked up, his gaze scanning the interior of the small, rustic cottage. “And now this one in her cousin’s weekender.”

“The one in Melbourne, are you sure it’s the same perp?”

“Oh yes. You see our clever friend takes the victim’s phone and house keys after killing them, goes into their homes, probably after staking them out to see no one else is home, and removes all of their computer gear.”

“What the hell for? Wouldn’t that be a risk? Someone could see him.”

“Yes, it is a risk, but so far he’s gotten away with it. No one thus far remembers seeing anything or anyone unusual. We think he’s taking all their computer gear because he’s meeting his victims on the internet. In fact, I’m personally convinced he’s meeting them on Ashley Madison.”

“Why? I mean, why are you sure of that?”

“Thus far we haven’t been able to establish any links between the victims. They didn’t go to school together, work together, join the same clubs or gyms, or even work in the same industries. Nothing links them except their appearance. But if you look at all the things the victims do have in common you’ll see that they were all between the ages of twenty-five and forty, every one of them was married with no children, and all died while their husbands were away for at least one night. Not only that, but none of them told anyone, not their husbands, or a colleague, friend, or neighbour they were going anywhere or meeting anyone. That’s unusual. What do you surmise from that, Constable?”

“Sounds like they might have been cheating on their husbands, Boss.”

“That’s what I think too. So next step. If you don’t want to risk being seen hooking up with someone at a bar or club where would you find them?”

“Ashley Madison or Tindr.”

DCI Burns nodded. “My bets on Ashley Madison. It’s the biggest cheating wives website around and offers our perp more chance to scope out his intended victims.”

“So, our killer meets cheating wives on the net, probably Ashley Madison, then after killing them, goes to their houses and lets himself in with their keys and nicks their computers…”

DCI Burns finished the constable’s summary, “Thus erasing any electronic trail that might lead us to his identity. Fuck, he probably even sends them pictures of himself. Otherwise, there’s no way they’d ever trust him enough to meet him. He meets them somewhere, possibly where they were killed, but he may also have met them at a club or bar first. At this point we don’t know.”

“But if you think he’s meeting them through Ashley Madison, why doesn’t he have sex with them and why not just ask to see their records?”

“Until we catch him we can only surmise his motivations, and, Constable, you think we haven’t thought of contacting Ashley Madison? Firstly, we don’t have proof that’s how he’s finding his victims – it’s just an educated guess. None of the victims was advertising the fact they were members. Second, they’re an American website so it’s a more complicated procedure to get a court order to force them. Last, and by no means least, when we asked them nicely they told us to fuck off and not invade their clients’ privacy.”

“The sick fucks! Excuse my French, sir.”

“That’s alright, son. Sick, degenerate fucks just about covers it in my book as well. Sad to know they wouldn’t exist as a business, let alone thrive, without consumer demand.”

“So, are you saying all we can do is wait for him to make a mistake, sir?”

“That or he dies or whatever is driving him to do what he does disappears. I wouldn’t hold my breath for the latter two. Our profile puts our perp between twenty-five and fifty, so plenty of years left in him, barring an accident.”

At that point DCI Burns’ phone rang and he stepped away to answer it. From a distance the constable could see the conversation got his senior officer agitated. DCI Burns pocketed the phone and jogged toward the constable, shouting.

“Constable, take over here. The station just got a call. A guy came home early from a business trip last night and found his wife missing. She hasn’t returned this morning so he called it in. The wife fits the description of our victims – thirty-six-years old, no kids, with shoulder length brown hair. With any luck our killer hasn’t had time to go to their house yet and take the computer.”

*****

DCI Burns arrived at the address he’d been given and knocked on the front door. It opened almost immediately. Almost as if the man had been waiting on the other side for his arrival. The man looked worried, dark circles hinting at a sleepless night. A frown creased his brow and his hair was standing on end as if a hand had run through it many times.

Burns held out his hand and introduced himself.”

“Have you found her? Have you found Brooke?”

“Not yet, sir. I need to ask you if your wife’s computer or tablet is missing?”

“I, um, I don’t know. It’s not something I thought to check. All I checked for was her handbag and clothing. Her regular handbag is gone but everything else in our bedroom seems normal.”

DCI Burns tried to contain his excitement. “Would you mind if we check to see if all your computer gear is still on the premises. It’s important.”

“Um, okay.”

The husband sounded confused but led the way to a small but tastefully set up study and there, in pride of place, sat a PC. Burns wanted to shout for joy. A break at last.

“I need to take this PC to our I.T. team. Does your wife own a tablet or iPad? If so, we’ll need them too.”

The man left the room to retrieve an iPad that he said his wife used for reading and streaming music.

Burns donned some gloves and carefully began disconnecting cables.

“Why is our computer and Brooke’s iPad important? How will that help in finding her?”

Burns looked up from what he was doing. He couldn’t help but note the husband had paled and was staring at his gloved hands.

“Is she dead?” he whispered. “Do you think someone kidnapped Brooke? Murdered her?”

“We don’t know, sir. But one possibility is that Brooke made a connection with someone online who convinced her to meet them. We won’t be able to confirm that until we examine your computer. It’s not our only line of inquiry. We’re doing our utmost to locate your wife.”

Burns felt bad but didn’t want to tell the man there was a high probability, based on the other victims, that not only was his wife cheating on him, but was dead. Until they found Brooke’s body there was hope. There was the possibility that the similarities of her physical appearance to that of the other victims was a coincidence.

“Is there anyone you would like me to call for you? Any family or friends? Anyone you can stay with?”

The guy shook his head. “I don’t want to leave the house in case Brooke comes home.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to. There’s some more questions we’d like to ask and we have some mug shots we’d like you to have a look at.”

“Mug shots? Who of?”

“Sex Offenders.”

Burns watched the man’s Adam’s apple rise and fall and his eyes water. As Burns had seen a hundred times before in a hundred other murder investigations, the man began to blink rapidly, trying to internalise his fear rather than succumb to it in front of another man. If anything, the man’s face went even paler.

DCI Burns turned and made a trip out to his car with the PC to give the guy time to get his emotions under control. Often that was the kindest thing to do. Burns felt ashamed of the relief he felt when he returned to the living room to find the man looking ashen but calm.

He made another trip to the car with the cables, mouse, keyboard, and iPad. Before returning to the house, he made a call to the station, giving orders for all available non-uniformed officers to discreetly check to see if anyone was staking out the house, and if they came up empty handed to stake the place out themselves.

Call made, he returned to the house and asked the husband to follow him to the station, hoping the killer would return that evening and see the house dark and try to access the property. At that point, the four burly coppers he knew were assigned to stake the place out would pounce, with deadly force if necessary.

DCI Burns handed the computer gear over to the boffins after getting some suggestions from the husband on his wife’s passwords. Apparently, the PC was hers. Hubby used a laptop which he kept at his office. That news gave DCI Burns even more hope they’d caught a break on the case at last.

He considered retrieving the guy’s laptop as well – experience had taught him not to jump to conclusions. After all, the biggest killer of women wasn’t any given disease; it was someone they knew so the husband couldn’t be eliminated as a subject too soon. His gut was telling him, though, that Brooke was The Strangler’s latest victim so he decided he’d make a call on the guy’s laptop after seeing what the techies could retrieve from her PC.

Burns made the guy a coffee and asked him some more questions about Brooke and the state of their marriage. Even though he thought it unlikely that one of the sex offenders on their register was the perp he had the husband scroll through the database. Besides, it was a handy way of keeping the guy away from his house without unduly alarming him. As expected, no one pinged.

Hoping that the time at the station had served to calm the man he explained that he was free to go but requested he stay away from his house until further notice. The husband elected to stay at the station for the time being, saying he didn’t want to have to deal with questions from family and friends. DCI Burns could understand that. So often a person managed to keep it together until someone asked them if they were okay. Somehow that phrase opened a floodgate for many.

The husband was no sooner settled in what was actually an interview room with a fresh cup of coffee when Burns received word they’d cracked the PC and the woman’s Ashley Madison profile was an open book. Within another ten minutes, they had an address where the naïve wife had agreed to meet the man who had been stalking her for six months.

It only took another twenty-five minutes for DCI Burns to tell his team that he could no longer wait for the judge’s warrant and was authorising them to knock the door down under the ‘imminent danger’ guidelines.

What they found was a treasure trove of evidence… and a very dead wife.

That it was Brooke was not in doubt – they’d already found her bag sitting on a table in the entryway. She was the only occupant of the house and was lying on what was clearly the master bedroom bed. She lay spreadeagled, her wrists and ankles secured to the bedposts by scarves. Burns didn’t think he’d ever be able to look at a lacy black bra or garter belt ever again and consider them sexy.

A blindfold covered her eyes and the detective was glad it would be someone else’s job to remove it. Burns didn’t want to see her open, staring eyes. Dead eyes. He wondered if she’d had any warning, any idea at all that her illicit meeting would end in her death.

She’d been strangled. That much was obvious. As per the previous victims, the killer had used a scarf. This one similar to the ones securing her wrists and ankles to the bed posts. There was no obvious sign of bruising on her arms, legs, or torso that he could see and she was still wearing her underwear. Burns hoped that meant the Strangler had held true to his modus operandi and that she hadn’t been raped and tortured.

The owner of the house, one Nigel Lawson, was nowhere to be found despite his car being found in the garage. DCI Burns was astounded at the man’s arrogance at leaving the victim in his house, in his very bed. He clearly thought himself smarter than the forces out to catch him.

Suspecting Lawson had access to a second vehicle and that he would sometime that day attempt to gain access to the woman’s house for her computer, DCI Burns radioed the officers staking out the victim’s house to be on alert.

Feeling a tad cowardly, Burns sent Sergeant Moira O’Connell back to the station to inform the husband. O’Connell was as good a police officer as you could hope to find. She was smart and didn’t take shit from anyone. For all her toughness, though, she had a knack for imparting bad news. Burns told himself she’d do a better, kinder job than he of informing the husband. Besides, men seemed to accept bad news better from a woman; something else his years on the force had taught him.

They had the photograph hubby had supplied earlier as well as the woman’s purse, so were confident the victim was Brooke, but the coroner would require three forms of identification so the husband would soon be required to attend an identification. Burns knew Moira would do a good job of helping him prepare for that traumatic experience.

While asking the crime scene guy, one Burns didn’t know very well as he was a new recruit, all the usual questions Moira messaged him to say the woman’s husband took the news stoically but badly, declining any counselling. He’d said he needed air and had gone for a walk, promising to return within the hour.

DCI Burns carefully went through the house looking for further evidence. It didn’t take long to locate Mr. Lawson’s computer. It was bagged and immediately transported to Forensics.

Within minutes of the departure of the computer they found six pieces of carry-on luggage stored in a guest bedroom built-in wardrobe. Each case contained a collection of computers, tablets, and phones. Burns smiled. Lawson was making it easy for them to build a case. The guy had clearly kept the computer gear as trophies. Better yet, each carry-on also contained a pair of panties sealed in a ziplock bag. Burns was confident the DNA would match that of their victims.

A search of police records showed Lawson had been issued with a pistol licence but thus far no gun had been found. Nor had any information regarding his suspected second vehicle. Thus far nothing had come up via car rental agencies either.

The warning had been issued that Lawson may be armed and should be considered dangerous. DCI Burns assigned more officers to sweep the neighbourhood around victim #7’s house, all reason to act with stealth now gone. Frustratingly, a renewed search of Lawson’s house hadn’t turned up any clues as to where the perp worked.

By 7:00 p.m., Lawson was still at large and his house was dark, the police having completed their search and Forensics had collected all they needed.

DCI Burns would later kick himself for not leaving instructions for the second stake-out team earlier. The lapse between the departure of forensics and their arrival allowed Nigel Lawson to sneak into his house via the back door, perhaps alerted by the damage to the front door.

All DCI Burns knew was that as he entered the back hall for one last check prior to leaving the house to the stake-out team he was confronted with Mr. Nigel Lawson holding a pistol aimed at his chest. Burns quickly span through a doorway, years of training kicking in.

Knowing what the sick fucker had done – those women might have been cheating, and as repugnant as that might be, they didn’t deserve to die for their sins – and knowing how desperate Lawson must be, DCI Burns forwent the usual warnings, there were no witnesses after all, and re-entered the hall at a crouch, taking Lawson by surprise.

Lawson fired wildly, hitting the wall well above DCI Burns’ head.

Without a moment of hesitancy or remorse Burns returned fire, giving Nigel Lawson the two regulation slugs to the middle of the chest with his .38. Lawson was dead before he hit the floor.

DCI Burns, it turned out, hit gold with each and every one of the carry-ons. They did indeed hold the victims’ computers and each victim had an Ashley Madison account which showed them corresponding with Nigel Lawson in various guises but all with photographs of him. DNA from the knickers also matched the victims.

Lawson’s computer was another matter – it, like those of the victims, showed he had an Ashley Madison account but, unfortunately, it only contained information about his latest victim. They would later surmise that he opened a new account for each victim. A single hunt.

Later investigation would also reveal Lawson was in Melbourne on business at the same time as when Victim # 3 was killed.

*****

THE HUSBAND

The husband of the seventh victim of the Ashley Madison Killer, as Nigel Lawson was later dubbed by the press, walked around the corner from the police station, wiping his eyes. He felt exhausted. He found a small park and sat on a bench in the sun, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees.

He looked down at his hands. They were trembling. He noticed how the sunlight highlighted the fine hairs on their backs. He straightened and lifted his hands, flexing and contracting his long fingers, trying to imagine them gripping a scarf wrapped around the slender throat of a cheating wife. Tried to see them pulling the scarf tight until there was no more breath left in them. He shivered, the taste of bile in his mouth. The idea nauseated him.

He knew then his compulsion had died with Brooke. The Hunter had claimed his last victim.

He sagged, his chin dropping to his chest. Relief engulfed him. It was over. It was finally over.

Five years prior Brooke had cheated on him. Even now, he recalled the pain, the sense of betrayal that cut to the core, the rage. Yes, the rage. It had been all-consuming. It had robbed him of sleep. Had haunted his every waking moment. Unrelenting. And always the questions. The questions that would never be answered, at least not adequately. Why? Why had she so betrayed him? He’d never know the true reason. He knew all the reasons she gave him were tainted. How could they not be? Her answers came with an agenda – she wanted his forgiveness.

At the time, against his better judgement, he’d allowed outside interests to talk him into taking her back. To giving her a second chance. Everyone makes mistakes, they’d said. She loves you, they’d said. She’s devastated at how she’s hurt you, they’d said. Ask yourself, they’d urged him, are you better off with or without her?

Deep down, he knew it was no mistake. She was flawed. She’d do it again. It would only be a matter of time before the other shoe dropped.

And so, he’d kept an eye on her. Two eyes, actually. One obvious and the other far more subtle.

He’d hated it. It revolted him. Offended him. It was not who he was. And yet he’d done it. For years. Like taking bitter medicine he’d monitored her every move, every call, every text. Oh, how he’d hated that it was necessary. Hated knowing that she couldn’t be trusted. That she’d betray him again. Hurt him again.

A year ago, thinking maybe he was wrong, hoping he was wrong, he’d made a big deal over a fancy dinner in a fancy restaurant of removing all the obvious checking he was doing. She’d been so happy and showed him so later in their bedroom but even then he’d wondered if it was him she was thinking of or was she reliving one of her past illicit trysts.

Unbeknownst to her, though, the doubter in him had continued the deeper, more hidden surveillance.

Sadly, his suspicions, his doubts and fears, proved justified. The signs Brooke was contemplating a new lover became clear to him all too soon after she’d thought herself safe. The other shoe dropped.

Déjà vu at its worst.

Something inside him snapped. Died.

And something… someone had been born. Something malformed. Foul. Someone dark. Evil. The Hunter.

After that, all he’d had to do was monitor the Ashley Madison account she’d set up and watch the long-term seduction of his willing, and ever-so-flirtations wife by an obviously seasoned and patient predator.

Rudimentary facial recognition software had given him the predator’s name and address pretty quickly, then the frame up began in earnest.

Finding out where the guy drank, then befriending him to learn about his business trips and other movements was so simple as to be unchallenging. For a man so lacking in trustworthiness he was himself trusting, that or just plain stupid, leaving his keys and wallet on the bar while he sauntered across the room to chat up yet another woman. Plenty of time to take both to the men’s room to take a mould of his house keys and verify the address.

When the slime began bragging to his new drinking buddy about all the wives he’d seduced and bedded it had taken all his iron self-control not to wait outside the bar and strangle the scumbag there and then.

But stripped of love, self-control was all he had left.

Much of the joy left his life when his wife stuck the knife in his back the first time. Before that betrayal he’d been a mild-mannered man. Softly spoken. One who enjoyed the theatre, the arts, a good book, and other more cultured things in life. Now that joy, that gentleness, was gone.

The Hunter was amazed his wife hadn’t noticed the change in him, but he figured she’d come to resent being on the defensive after being caught the first time, and it was only a matter of waiting for her to attempt to reclaim the ascendency by cheating again. Boringly, he was right.

It had been the simplest of things to copy the predator’s profile pic and start his own account on Ashley Madison. He’d used proxy servers and the like to cover his tracks, making it look like he was the predator. Easy if you knew how. He, as Nigel, had meted out justice for his fellow betrayed husbands.

But that wasn’t enough. Nigel Lawson had to pay for his crimes, for his wanton disregard for the marriage vows of his conquests.

The problem of luring Lawson away from his own house so the Hunter could kill his own wife there had proved, in the end, simple. Nigel proved as predictable as his victims.

All he’d had to do was start another Ashley Madison profile. This time as a woman, under the name of Brandi; a late twenties, mixed-race, bored wife looking for a bit of excitement. Totally fictitious, of course.

Visits to various stock image websites provided a plethora of photographs of bikini-clad, café latte-skinned girls with dark sultry looks to choose from in order to pique Nigel’s interest. A careful scrutiny would show they weren’t all the same person, but The Hunter knew from long experience that people were very good at fooling themselves when they wanted to. They saw what they wanted to see. They said love was blind, he’d discovered lust was responsible for the same affliction.

Once snared, he’d simply arranged for Nigel to meet ‘Brandi’ at a motel on the other side of town. The initial tryst was supposed to be at 8:00 p.m. but a message sent via Ashley Madison arriving around that time and every hour or so afterwards, sent using the delayed send function of the email service, kept the frustrated lothario at the motel until morning. The Hunter had watched him take an uber from the motel to his work. He hadn’t looked happy.

The Hunter was proud of his stalking abilities. The man behind the persona, not so much. He’d known his wife would eventually fall for the lure of Nigel fucking Lawson. It was there in her words, her messages. Her lust in black and white on the screen. She wrote things to Lawson she’d never even intimated to him, her husband. She’d never given him the chance to be the things she needed.

Each dirty revelation was another poisoned dagger in his already broken and rotting heart. He’d had to kill her, versions of her, over and over again. It was the only thing that helped with the pain. The rage. They were cheating sluts too. Murderers of their husband’s love, their trust. Just like Brooke.

But it had to stop.

Brooke. How easy it had been in the end to lure her to Lawson’s house. All it took was one message. He’d pretended to be Lawson. Now or never, he’d said. She’d practically come at a run. She drove boldly into the garage. Stepped from the behind the wheel smiling and confident. Like a model.

Her smile didn’t last long though. Not long at all.

All she’d worn over her slutty underwear was a trench coat. And high heels. CFM’s. Come Fuck Me pumps. She’d come ready to fuck.

In the end, she’d been a cliché.

An echo of the rage he’d felt upon seeing her eager and anticipating another man’s cock as she turned to face him in Lawson’s garage washed through him but he pushed it away. It’s time was over. All of it was over. He was a free man. Free in every way. Free from the compulsion to punish. Free to live his life.

And a predator’s reputation was forever destroyed for being identified as the Ashley Madison Killer. Justice.

Now, for one last time, he mentally went through the jigsaw pieces he’d fed the police, looking for flaws that might lead them back to him. The exercise reminded him of his work as an editor, checking and double-checking plot lines, timelines, tiny details. The Hunter was good at his job.

The ever so helpful Sergeant Moira O’Connell had told him they were staking out Nigel’s house, probably hoping the news would give him some comfort. He knew from Lawson’s bragging during his time as his pub friend that Nigel owned a pistol. The Hunter could only hope that Lawson would act true to his arrogant macho character and be shot down in a shootout with the police. Then again, the alternative of having him live a long and miserable life in prison as Bubba’s bitch was also highly appealing. The Hunter nodded – either outcome would do just nicely.

Just then, The Hunter’s phone rang and he unhurriedly reached into his trouser pocket to retrieve it.

“Hello. Brown Publishing Services, David Brown speaking. “

THE END

NOW A JOKE OR TWO TO LIGHTEN THE MOOD AND EASE YOU BACK TO REALITY!

VAN1’s JOKE

An old dude is holidaying in Thailand when he reads in his diary that his prostate examination is due. Rather than waiting till he gets home he decides to go to a local clinic.

A beautiful Thai nurse tells him to strip while she puts on some rubber gloves.

Nurse: “Now, Sir, it’s quite normal to get an erection at this point.”

Old Dude: “I don’t have an erection.”

Nurse, smiling: “I do.”

CTC’s JOKE (thank you, Cosimo!)

A doctor was having vigorous sex with one of his patients, he was really going at it, sweat was dripping from his brow and soon he exploded in a massive orgasm, erupting from the very depths of his body.

After he withdrew and was catching his breath, his good angel appeared to him and said, “You should be ashamed of yourself! Here you are, a doctor, having sex with one of your patients!”

Just then, his bad angel appeared and said, “Oh, c’mon, doc, don’t sweat it. No harm, no foul. You are certainly not the first doctor to have sex with one of his patients!”

To which the good angel snapped, “Yes, but most of them weren’t veterinarians!”