Free Vigilare by Brooklyn James Page A

feel about rapists?”
    Gina ignores her goading.
    Dr. Ryan eyes her thoroughly, focusing on her neck. Her hand subconsciously following her train of thought, she reaches out pulling at the mock collar of Gina’s black fatigue sweater, revealing what appears to be rope burn. “Where were you last night?” she provokes.
    With catlike swiftness, Gina places her hand over Dr. Ryan’s, pinpointing localized pressure to a reflex area, causing it to open unwillingly. Dr. Ryan winces, a smile forming on her lips. Gina loosens her grip. Dr. Ryan pulls her hand to her lap, massaging it briefly.
    “Bodies coming up dead. No solid evidence. Guess work and speculation. Resorting to blaming your own. I feel a panic coming on, Detective DeLuca. Something tells me this city’s on the brink of a witch hunt.” Dr. Ryan stands, pushing her chair in. “Unless you have an affinity for fire, you may want to take care of that neck.” She winks furtively before turning to walk away.

 
     
     
    Chapter 5
     
     
    LATE NIGHT. ONE seedy apartment complex after another. This side of town is dark and dreary, even on the most luminous of days. Randall Barnes wears a hooded, bulky winter coat, his hands tucked deeply in the pockets of his ill-fitting jeans. He carries himself cautiously, his posture stooped, eyeing every corner and alleyway for what may be lurking there. He enters his apartment building, taking an old-school freight elevator to his unit. He holds his finger over the UP button. The elevator takes off, making it to the tenth floor before coming to a screeching halt.
    “Goddammit,” he mutters, jamming the palm of his hand against the UP button.
    “I see you, Randall.”
    His head cranks upward in the direction of a muffled, distorted voice. Glaring fluorescent lights cloud his vision. He shades his frantic face, holding his arm above his forehead, searching for someone, anyone. “Who’s there?” He turns circles.
    “How does it feel?” the voice echoes out of the speaker box in the elevator ceiling.
    “What...what are you talking about? Who’s there!” The whites of his eyes protruding, his chest heaves up and down.
    The voice laughs lightly. “Do you remember Rudy Sangino?”
    Recognition displays itself in Randall’s expression. He says nothing.
    “What’s the matter, Randall? Cat got your tongue?”
    He panics, pushing and punching the UP button until it breaks loose. His breath heavy with adrenaline, his mouth is dry as cotton from the massive endorphins released by his sympathetic nervous system...fight or flight. He bangs on the door of the elevator.
    “Five years ago, you dated Rudy’s mother. She trusted you with her little boy. Dark black hair, big brown eyes, sweet smile...infectious laugh. Remember him?”
    He backs up in the corner away from the speaker box, his arms clutching the walls of the elevator. “What do you want from me!”
    “‘The one who sows to please his sinful nature, from that nature will reap destruction,’” the voice quotes from the Bible, Galatians 6:8. “It’s your turn to reap the fruits of your harvest, Randall.”
    The elevator lights flicker as it begins to drop. Randall slides down the wall in the corner, hiding his head between his knees. With a hard jolt, the square box stops midair, clanking and clacking. The pulley above creaks, as it rocks back and forth.
    Randall jumps up, raging and punching at the walls of the elevator and at the vent above him. “Let me out of here!” he screams, frightened to the point of tears.
    “Not so fun, is it, Randall? Being caged up like an animal against your will. How do you think Rudy felt? Every time you picked him up from school and took him home to his mother’s apartment. Telling him the elevator was the Buddy Box . A secret place, only for you and him. How many times did he ask you to stop? When you touched him, made him touch you. Did you? Did you stop, Randall? You had no mercy for him. I have no mercy for