Darkness Rising
A Once Upon a Time in Mexico story by Merrie
Disclaimer: I do not own Sheldon Jeffrey Sands (SJ) or anything that comes with him. He belongs to genius Robert Rodriguez who would be horrified to see what I'm going to do to him.
Summary: Sheldon Jeffrey Sands isn't your normal young man. In fact, there's nothing even remotely normal about him at all. A story of murder, mayhem and general SJ-ness.
Characters: SJ, OFC's Yvette St. Martin and Rhonda "Big Rhonda" Starr. There will be others in later chapters. The story is just beginning.
Author's Note: This takes place before the movie, before SJ was even a CIA agent. Thanks to the wonderful Miss B, for betaing, and to all of you who sent your reviews along assuring me that I was not insane for writing something like the last chapter. *grin*
Um, I know I placed SJ in DC, but other than the usual touristy stuff, I know absolutely nothing about the city so all geographical info is utter BS.
Rating: R for strong violence, graphic imagery and SJ's dirty mouth.
Chapter Two: Body Identification and Disposal
Sands stood at the doorway to his bedroom, his lean form half covered by a dark blue towel, his shoulder-length straight hair hanging limp and wet onto his shoulders and surveyed the scene before him. He had only a few hours until the housekeeper would arrive to see the remains of this...mess, but he was unworried. He was calm and he was in control; as always. He no longer cared who the dead girl was, or where she had come from. It no longer mattered to him. What did matter was getting her remains safely disposed of without getting caught. But in this also, he was unworried. He knew he could get away with it. He could most likely get away with anything; talk his way out of any situation. It was his talent and gift. Everyone he knew had always said so, and they had hated him for it.
His parents' death was one example. They had died in a fire in their city side home, if a sprawling 20 room multimillion dollar mansion could indeed be called a home, when he was 17. He had been the only survivor of the blaze, and the sole inheritor of his family's considerable fortune. There were many people, his so called friends and family members included, that had whispered that it was too much of a coincidence that he was the only one to survive. 'Poor little Sheldon,' they'd say, and God how he hated that name, 'I bet he did it. I bet he burnt his poor parents alive. They never got along, and he's their sole heir. Did you realize that? He's filthy rich now. And he always was a rather disturbed individual as a child, you know. Always wanting to be left by himself; never wanting to play with the other children. And you know what his teachers said? They said he started fights in school. Can you imagine that? And they never did find out what happened to the class hamster.' Oh how his relatives would prattle on like nitwits for poor lost little Sheldon.
He hated every one of them. The truth was that he couldn't remember what had happened the night of the fire. Try as he might, he could remember anything past standing outside on the front lawn watching it burn instead of calling for help. That in and of itself suggested that he might have had something to do with starting the fire; he had merely watched it burn rather than calling for help, but if he did intentionally burn his parents alive he had no memory of it. 'Which isn't to say that it didn't happen.' A voice whispered from a darkened corner of his mind. Sands frowned at this, somewhat worried that his conscience seemed to be speaking aloud to him, but he pushed the thought aside. He had bigger problems on his plate right now than his conscience taking voice.
Deciding to just let his brushed and parted hair dry by itself, Sands went about getting dressed. Only the best outfit would do for what he had to accomplish. He had to be dressed nicely, but not so much so people wouldn't leave him alone. Just enough for people to accept at face value that he was a regular wealthy upstanding citizen, probably coming home late from some all night party. Pay no attention to the suspicious looking garment bag he has slung over his shoulder. An upstanding young man like that, I'm sure it's something perfectly harmless.
Sands opened up his walk-in closet and surveyed what lay before him; row upon row of monochromatic black clothing. He wasn't trying to affect himself as an artist or anything by the almost completely black wardrobe, he simply liked the way it looked on him. It made him feel dangerous. 'Not that you need the clothes to feel dangerous right now if you did indeed kill that girl, Sands,' the now irritating voice whispered. Sands just muttered a "shut-up" but otherwise tried to ignore it.
After a few long moments' deliberation, he finally decided on tight black leather pants and a black silk shirt so soft you could ball it up in one hand. Getting dressed quickly, he took one last look at himself in the bathroom mirror before going about the rest of his business. He looked good and he knew it. Maybe on the way back he could pick up a living girl or two to bring back with him. One could always hope.
Coming back into the bedroom, he looked it over one last time before putting on his coat, and proceeding with the disposal. A thought occurred to him as his eyes set on the garment bag with the girl in it, where were her clothes? He kicked himself for nearly forgetting such a telling detail. Stalking across the room he searched every inch of it with no success. Growing frustrated, thinking that perhaps she had just come to his apartment naked, he couldn't remember anything so it could have happened, he knelt by the girl's body and looked underneath his large bed. Sure enough, there puddled in front of his nose was a tasteful black cocktail dress, a black scrap of lingerie and a pair of strapped three inch heels. Pulling each of these items out from underneath the bed, he noticed a small matching black purse up against the wall. 'No wonder I picked her up,' he thought with a smirk, 'she has my tastes in color.' 'Aha,' the irritating voice piped in, 'so you did pick her up. You admit it. You picked her up and then you probably had sex with her and then killed her. Perhaps you killed her first instead, you are a rather sick individual, you know.'
"Shut up," Sands mumbled to himself. He didn't have time for a rampant conscience right now that called him a sicko. He had more important things to do. Grabbing the purse, he took a deep breath and opened it slowly. He hadn't wanted to know who the girl was, but now he found he couldn't stop himself from wondering. He upended the purse and dumped its contents on the floor next to its owner.
To say he was shocked at what he saw before him was an understatement. There, lying ever so innocently on the carpet was a handgun. It was only a small .22 caliber pistol, something a young woman might carry in a small purse, but it was a handgun all the same. Sands had dealt with handguns before, he even owned a few himself, but he approached this one as if it was about to come alive and blow his brains out at any second. He picked it up cautiously, stressing to himself that there was nothing to worry about, and sniffed delicately at the barrel. It hadn't been fired recently. That meant that the girl either didn't have a chance to get to it, or more frightening, she hadn't thought she had she needed it. The second option worried Sands even more, because if he and the girl had indeed made love, she wouldn't have had any reason to suspect that he might kill her. He still wasn't fully admitting to himself that he had killed her, but circumstances were beginning to point to him in a way he couldn't ignore.
What his eyes landed on next freaked him out more than the handgun ever could. There, glinting menacingly in the warm light flooding the bedroom was a laminated nametag. The bold letters C.I.A at the top stared him down like members of a firing squad. Sands felt his mouth dry instantly, his tongue seeming to shrivel to the point where coherent speech was an impossibility. Yvette St. Martin, CIA. Not believing his eyes, he fumbled for her driver's license. Place of residence: Langley, Virginia. "Oh...shit," he whispered.
Not caring that it felt like his mouth was filled with gravel, Sands backed away sharply and began muttering to himself. "This is not happening. This cannot be fucking happening! The fucking CIA?? Give me a break! What the fuck is she doing here?" The irritating voice popped in to mention cheerily that she might have been on vacation. "Shut up!!" Sands screamed at the top of his lungs. He no longer cared about propriety or keeping control over himself or his situation. He was freaking out, and he didn't care about anything except saving his own skin.
In a fit of unrestrained rage, he took the gun and the laminated CIA badge and threw them as hard as he could against the far wall. Upon impact, the .22 fired off a shot that flew so close to his head that Sands could feel the wind of it ruffle his still wet hair. Dropping to the ground on instinct, he pressed his head against the body of the girl, Yvette St. Martin, CIA, in the bag. When he realized what had happened he sat up, stared at the handgun where it lay against the wall, its barrel smoking, and began to laugh.
He wasn't sure how long he laughed for, but it seemed like hours. He was also somewhat aware during his bout of laughter that he was most definitely hysterical. 'Oh who cares if you're hysterical,' the voice inside his head said, laughing itself, 'You're alive. Be thankful. Of course, Yvette here's got nothing to be thankful for since you killed her, but that's life, right?' All of Sands' laugher died at this. He was no longer deluding himself into thinking that this voice was his conscience. Your conscience didn't speak to you like this. At least, he didn't think it did, he'd never really been troubled by one so he didn't really know. He placed the heels of his hands on his temples and tried to will the voice away. "I don't have time for this. If I am going insane, it's going to have to wait until after I've disposed of this body." The voice in his head didn't say anything more, but Sands could feel that it agreed.
With that settled he got up, opened up the garment bag one last time and stuffed the dress, shoes and purse into it and zipped it back up. He then put on one of his leather jackets, grabbed his wallet and keys, walked over to where the gun and ID were, stuck the ID in the inner pocket of his jacket and the gun at his back in the waist of his leather pants, and hefted the body over his shoulder. It wasn't as heavy as it looked, he was pleased to note.
Once in his apartment building's parking garage, he had made it down the elevator from his penthouse apartment and out through the building past the security guard without incident, the man at the desk even saying the usual "Good morning, Mr. Sands." He hadn't responded to the man's cheery greeting, but that wasn't unusual for him. Coming to stand in front of his car, he had never before hated it as much as he did now. The sleek black Jaguar would stick out like a sore thumb in the areas he needed to go, but there was nothing he could do about it. He didn't have access to his other cars at this time of night, so he would have to make do. "At least it's not the Lamborghini," he thought wryly. "There would be no way to fit a body inside that car." Juggling the body and his keys, he managed to open the trunk without dropping either and deposited the body laden garment bag inside.
Making his way quickly out of the garage, he didn't exactly speed down DC's streets, but he didn't exactly go the speed limit either. He wasn't really worried about cops, but getting pulled over would just be a perfect complement to this already fucked up beyond all belief day, and it wasn't even dawn yet. He could just imagine the conversation in his head, "Why no, officer. I don't know where the body came from. Yes, she does appear to be murdered, doesn't she?" No fucking thanks.
***
Although he had never attempted to dispose of a body in his life, at least he didn't think he ever had, but his memory was playing tricks on him recently, Sands knew of more than one way to manage it. Even if he hadn't known such knowledge scientifically, he had certainly seen enough movies and read enough books on the subject. There was dismemberment, messy but effective. But Sands had neither the time nor the inclination to dismember someone in the wee hours of the morning. That left more scientific methods of disposal, which he ultimately preferred over the more barbaric means. All he needed to do was get his hands on some lye or acid. Either wouldn't be easy to come by at this time of day, but he thought he could manage. He knew the city offered Sodium Hydroxide or lye at it was more commonly known, for farmers for use in balancing out the pH levels in the soil of their fields. Not that DC had any farmland, but the surrounding area most certainly did, and even if he couldn't get his hands on any at a farm supply store, he knew that the lawn waste disposal people in the city offered it as well.
Breaking in one of these buildings and taking what he needed had been so easy it left him not with an accomplished feeling at getting away with it, but a more disgusted feeling that if he had actually gotten caught it would have been more worth it somehow. This wasn't a very helpful state of mind to be in, but he couldn't help it; he was annoyed.
Driving to what looked like the seediest section of the entire city, Sands smiled and got out of the car, opening the trunk and getting the body out, slinging it over a shoulder. He didn't bother locking it, because if anyone was foolish enough to try stealing his car, he would have a hell of a time tracking them down and well, killing them. No, if they lay a hand on his Jag killing them wasn't punishment enough. While gruesome torture scenarios ran through his head, he walked up to the grimy motel he had parked in front of.
The woman at the front desk, who was upon closer inspection actually a man, raked his/her eyes slowly over Sands' dark form, not hiding her/his pleasure. "Whoo-whee, where did you come from, stranger?" the transvestite asked in a breathy voice, fanning herself/himself a little with the fashion magazine she had been flipping through with her ridiculously long blue fingernails tipped hands. "I'm Rhonda Starr, but you can call me Big Rhonda, sugar. If you know what I mean," she winked at him. "Are you just interested in a room or would you like some company to go along with it?" This was accompanied with a waggle of her arched eyebrows suggestively in Sands' direction.
Sands struggled to keep his face free of the revulsion that welled up within him, and even managed a smile as he said to her, "Not tonight, sugarbutt." She tittered at this. "But I am interested in a room for a few days."
Big Rhonda made a tsking sound with her tongue. "No can do, cutie. We only give rooms by the hour, not the day."
"Well then simply charge me for 72 hour's worth. I'll pay whatever you want." Sands said slowly, trying not to seem desperate. Which he wasn't really, but he didn't feel like searching out another hour-rate motel like this one at the moment.
Rhonda's flirtations paused for a moment, and a look of suspicion crossed her face and her eyes passed over the garment bag balanced over his shoulder. Deciding that she had seen weirder things in her life, the look of suspicion on her face was replaced by a look that could only be described as sultry. The thought of sharing the room he was about to rent, even for only a few of the hours he was paying for...she had to fan herself briskly again.
This specimen of man in front of her/him was indeed worthy of her interest, but now it seemed that there was something about him. Something...off. It sent a chill down her spine. Now, the chill could have been due to the fact that she was wearing a bright blue mid-thigh length skin-tight dress in the middle of October, but she doubted it. No, the chill definitely emanated from the dark young man in front of her. Not that he had dark skin, no in fact his skin was the color of fresh snow, and now that she was really looking at him as a person rather than as a potential partner, he looked damn creepy in the fluorescent lights; somewhat ethereal. And the black on black ensemble didn't help. His face seemed to glow, floating above a sea of darkness. And while he was smiling at her, his eyes weren't in on it. No, taking a good look at his eyes, seemingly as black as his clothing in this light, the chill deepened and she shuddered.
Sands caught the shudder and his forced smile slipped a little from his face before he could stop it. 'She suspects something,' Sands thought to himself. 'She was horribly flirting with me one minute, and now she's looking at me as if I sprouted devil's horns and a forked tail. This isn't good.' Sands unconsciously shifted the garment bag on his shoulder, the girl was beginning to get heavy, and the action drew an even more suspicious glance. "Is something wrong?" Sands asked, breaking the eerily still silence that had pervaded the room. Rhonda jumped. Sands narrowed his eyes before he could stop himself. "Do I frighten you, sugar?" he couldn't help asking, leaning in toward the desk, invading her personal space a little. He had always liked intimidating people, and this was no different.
"No, no....not really," Rhonda said a bit shakily, clearly lying. "You really want a room for 72 hours? I can do that," she did a quick calculation in her head which impressed Sands somewhat, and spoke, "Seven dollars an hour for three nights is $504.00." The number was much higher than she had wanted it to be, because she was afraid of the man's reaction to the large sum. She was more than willing to bargain at this point; anything to get him to leave. She was no longer interested in sharing that room with him any longer.
'You're going to have to kill her, you know,' the voice in his head whispered. 'She's too suspicious and we can't have that,' Sands found himself agreeing. "No problem," Sands said, leaning slightly to the side to balance the body on his shoulder so he could free his hands to get to his wallet. He pulled out 5 crisp hundred dollar bills and a fifty as well. "Keep the change, sugar," he said, handing them to her with as real a smile as he could manage. She merely nodded and took the cash without a word. She handed him a key with the number 13 on it and he nearly laughed out loud. Fate certainly seemed to have a twisted sense of humor this morning. "Could you show me where this is, sugar? I'd really appreciate it," Sands said, his smile coming a little easier than before, but still forced.
"Uh, sure," Rhonda said slowly, stepping out from behind the desk. She very much would have liked to say no, but she couldn't think of a good excuse for why she didn't want to. Although, this man, while definitely creepy, couldn't do anything to her. Looking over him once more, she saw that with his lean form he probably couldn't even knock her over. She was 6'6'' in heels, and one tough cookie when the chips were down if she could say so herself. In fact, in the light of this assessment, she was no longer afraid of him and couldn't figure out why she had been in the first place. He wasn't a very large man, almost painfully thin, and his skin wasn't quite as pale as she had first thought. Perhaps it was the black clothes that had lent the air of danger around him. He was certainly dressed to kill. One thing Rhonda knew was clothes, and the black on black outfit he was wearing certainly wasn't cheap.
"Lead the way," the man drawled. Rhoda frowned as she realized she didn't know his name. When she had told him hers, she had been too distracted by the sight of him to think of asking. "Hey, what's your name, by the way?" She asked over her shoulder, walking toward his room.
Sands rolled his eyes at such an inane question at this point in time, but answered her anyway, "Sands."
"Sands?" she asked in a confused tone of voice. "That isn't your first name, is it?"
Sands sighed, but figured what the hell. He was about to kill her anyway. "No, my name is Sheldon Jeffrey Sands."
The transvestite did the worst of all possible actions. She laughed. She right out laughed at his name, and he felt himself grow very still and very cold. Even if he hadn't already planned on killing her for her suspicions regarding the body in the garment bag gaining weight his shoulder, no one insulted his despised first name and got away with it. "Yeah, Sheldon. I know. What a name," he said around clenched teeth.
"I can see why you go by Sands. It suits you somehow. Have you ever thought about going by S.J though?" Rhonda asked, still chuckling softly.
Sands wrinkled his nose in distaste. "S.J.? That's almost as bad as Sheldon. Definitely not."
Rhonda shrugged and walked on in silence until she reached the door. Sands handed her his key over his shoulder and indicated that he would like her to open it due to the rather unwieldy burden he was carrying on his shoulder. While she was opening the door, Sands reached around to where he had stuck the girl's handgun in his pants, and pulled it out, putting his finger on the trigger and holding it close to his right pant leg.
When she finally opened the door he pushed her through it and immediately turned around and locked it behind him. The sharp push had caused her to lose her balance in the 3 inch blue heels she was wearing and she went down in a flash, a hint of blue lingerie showing from underneath her dress as her legs spread wildly. Without a word, Sands pressed the .22 to the back of her head and pulled the trigger.
***
'In retrospect, killing the desk clerk might not have been such a good idea, Sands,' the voice in his head piped up. 'You're lucky people in this neighborhood are used to gunshots and no longer call the cops when they hear one. You know that right?'
"Shut up," Sands muttered. He was shocked at his actions however. He had never killed anyone in his life; at least, no one that he could remember, until now. The feeling of power he had felt holding the gun at the back of the transvestite's head had floored him. As soon as the deed was over, he had had to sit down on the hard bed and wait as the slightly dizzy and giddy feeling passed.
The two 'women,' he now used this term lightly after having to strip down the supposedly 'Big Rhonda,' were lying with their heads at opposite ends in the bathtub. The lye was sizzling merrily away and doing its work well, helped along by the water he had splashed on both bodies. He was careful to not get any on himself. He didn't want anything tying him back to this room once he was finished. He had made sure not to touch anything without gloved hands, and no one had seen him enter the building or the room save for Rhonda, and she wasn't a problem any longer. The only real problem was his Jag parked out front, sticking out like a crow among doves. He needed to do something about that soon. But right now, the adrenaline that had been fueling his activities this morning wore off, and he found himself asleep on the hard motel mattress before he could stop himself.
TBC
A/N: Ok, that got a little long, wow. Hope you liked it. There's more fun to come!!! :-) Please post your reviews and lemme know if you're still liking it!!
A Once Upon a Time in Mexico story by Merrie
Disclaimer: I do not own Sheldon Jeffrey Sands (SJ) or anything that comes with him. He belongs to genius Robert Rodriguez who would be horrified to see what I'm going to do to him.
Summary: Sheldon Jeffrey Sands isn't your normal young man. In fact, there's nothing even remotely normal about him at all. A story of murder, mayhem and general SJ-ness.
Characters: SJ, OFC's Yvette St. Martin and Rhonda "Big Rhonda" Starr. There will be others in later chapters. The story is just beginning.
Author's Note: This takes place before the movie, before SJ was even a CIA agent. Thanks to the wonderful Miss B, for betaing, and to all of you who sent your reviews along assuring me that I was not insane for writing something like the last chapter. *grin*
Um, I know I placed SJ in DC, but other than the usual touristy stuff, I know absolutely nothing about the city so all geographical info is utter BS.
Rating: R for strong violence, graphic imagery and SJ's dirty mouth.
Chapter Two: Body Identification and Disposal
Sands stood at the doorway to his bedroom, his lean form half covered by a dark blue towel, his shoulder-length straight hair hanging limp and wet onto his shoulders and surveyed the scene before him. He had only a few hours until the housekeeper would arrive to see the remains of this...mess, but he was unworried. He was calm and he was in control; as always. He no longer cared who the dead girl was, or where she had come from. It no longer mattered to him. What did matter was getting her remains safely disposed of without getting caught. But in this also, he was unworried. He knew he could get away with it. He could most likely get away with anything; talk his way out of any situation. It was his talent and gift. Everyone he knew had always said so, and they had hated him for it.
His parents' death was one example. They had died in a fire in their city side home, if a sprawling 20 room multimillion dollar mansion could indeed be called a home, when he was 17. He had been the only survivor of the blaze, and the sole inheritor of his family's considerable fortune. There were many people, his so called friends and family members included, that had whispered that it was too much of a coincidence that he was the only one to survive. 'Poor little Sheldon,' they'd say, and God how he hated that name, 'I bet he did it. I bet he burnt his poor parents alive. They never got along, and he's their sole heir. Did you realize that? He's filthy rich now. And he always was a rather disturbed individual as a child, you know. Always wanting to be left by himself; never wanting to play with the other children. And you know what his teachers said? They said he started fights in school. Can you imagine that? And they never did find out what happened to the class hamster.' Oh how his relatives would prattle on like nitwits for poor lost little Sheldon.
He hated every one of them. The truth was that he couldn't remember what had happened the night of the fire. Try as he might, he could remember anything past standing outside on the front lawn watching it burn instead of calling for help. That in and of itself suggested that he might have had something to do with starting the fire; he had merely watched it burn rather than calling for help, but if he did intentionally burn his parents alive he had no memory of it. 'Which isn't to say that it didn't happen.' A voice whispered from a darkened corner of his mind. Sands frowned at this, somewhat worried that his conscience seemed to be speaking aloud to him, but he pushed the thought aside. He had bigger problems on his plate right now than his conscience taking voice.
Deciding to just let his brushed and parted hair dry by itself, Sands went about getting dressed. Only the best outfit would do for what he had to accomplish. He had to be dressed nicely, but not so much so people wouldn't leave him alone. Just enough for people to accept at face value that he was a regular wealthy upstanding citizen, probably coming home late from some all night party. Pay no attention to the suspicious looking garment bag he has slung over his shoulder. An upstanding young man like that, I'm sure it's something perfectly harmless.
Sands opened up his walk-in closet and surveyed what lay before him; row upon row of monochromatic black clothing. He wasn't trying to affect himself as an artist or anything by the almost completely black wardrobe, he simply liked the way it looked on him. It made him feel dangerous. 'Not that you need the clothes to feel dangerous right now if you did indeed kill that girl, Sands,' the now irritating voice whispered. Sands just muttered a "shut-up" but otherwise tried to ignore it.
After a few long moments' deliberation, he finally decided on tight black leather pants and a black silk shirt so soft you could ball it up in one hand. Getting dressed quickly, he took one last look at himself in the bathroom mirror before going about the rest of his business. He looked good and he knew it. Maybe on the way back he could pick up a living girl or two to bring back with him. One could always hope.
Coming back into the bedroom, he looked it over one last time before putting on his coat, and proceeding with the disposal. A thought occurred to him as his eyes set on the garment bag with the girl in it, where were her clothes? He kicked himself for nearly forgetting such a telling detail. Stalking across the room he searched every inch of it with no success. Growing frustrated, thinking that perhaps she had just come to his apartment naked, he couldn't remember anything so it could have happened, he knelt by the girl's body and looked underneath his large bed. Sure enough, there puddled in front of his nose was a tasteful black cocktail dress, a black scrap of lingerie and a pair of strapped three inch heels. Pulling each of these items out from underneath the bed, he noticed a small matching black purse up against the wall. 'No wonder I picked her up,' he thought with a smirk, 'she has my tastes in color.' 'Aha,' the irritating voice piped in, 'so you did pick her up. You admit it. You picked her up and then you probably had sex with her and then killed her. Perhaps you killed her first instead, you are a rather sick individual, you know.'
"Shut up," Sands mumbled to himself. He didn't have time for a rampant conscience right now that called him a sicko. He had more important things to do. Grabbing the purse, he took a deep breath and opened it slowly. He hadn't wanted to know who the girl was, but now he found he couldn't stop himself from wondering. He upended the purse and dumped its contents on the floor next to its owner.
To say he was shocked at what he saw before him was an understatement. There, lying ever so innocently on the carpet was a handgun. It was only a small .22 caliber pistol, something a young woman might carry in a small purse, but it was a handgun all the same. Sands had dealt with handguns before, he even owned a few himself, but he approached this one as if it was about to come alive and blow his brains out at any second. He picked it up cautiously, stressing to himself that there was nothing to worry about, and sniffed delicately at the barrel. It hadn't been fired recently. That meant that the girl either didn't have a chance to get to it, or more frightening, she hadn't thought she had she needed it. The second option worried Sands even more, because if he and the girl had indeed made love, she wouldn't have had any reason to suspect that he might kill her. He still wasn't fully admitting to himself that he had killed her, but circumstances were beginning to point to him in a way he couldn't ignore.
What his eyes landed on next freaked him out more than the handgun ever could. There, glinting menacingly in the warm light flooding the bedroom was a laminated nametag. The bold letters C.I.A at the top stared him down like members of a firing squad. Sands felt his mouth dry instantly, his tongue seeming to shrivel to the point where coherent speech was an impossibility. Yvette St. Martin, CIA. Not believing his eyes, he fumbled for her driver's license. Place of residence: Langley, Virginia. "Oh...shit," he whispered.
Not caring that it felt like his mouth was filled with gravel, Sands backed away sharply and began muttering to himself. "This is not happening. This cannot be fucking happening! The fucking CIA?? Give me a break! What the fuck is she doing here?" The irritating voice popped in to mention cheerily that she might have been on vacation. "Shut up!!" Sands screamed at the top of his lungs. He no longer cared about propriety or keeping control over himself or his situation. He was freaking out, and he didn't care about anything except saving his own skin.
In a fit of unrestrained rage, he took the gun and the laminated CIA badge and threw them as hard as he could against the far wall. Upon impact, the .22 fired off a shot that flew so close to his head that Sands could feel the wind of it ruffle his still wet hair. Dropping to the ground on instinct, he pressed his head against the body of the girl, Yvette St. Martin, CIA, in the bag. When he realized what had happened he sat up, stared at the handgun where it lay against the wall, its barrel smoking, and began to laugh.
He wasn't sure how long he laughed for, but it seemed like hours. He was also somewhat aware during his bout of laughter that he was most definitely hysterical. 'Oh who cares if you're hysterical,' the voice inside his head said, laughing itself, 'You're alive. Be thankful. Of course, Yvette here's got nothing to be thankful for since you killed her, but that's life, right?' All of Sands' laugher died at this. He was no longer deluding himself into thinking that this voice was his conscience. Your conscience didn't speak to you like this. At least, he didn't think it did, he'd never really been troubled by one so he didn't really know. He placed the heels of his hands on his temples and tried to will the voice away. "I don't have time for this. If I am going insane, it's going to have to wait until after I've disposed of this body." The voice in his head didn't say anything more, but Sands could feel that it agreed.
With that settled he got up, opened up the garment bag one last time and stuffed the dress, shoes and purse into it and zipped it back up. He then put on one of his leather jackets, grabbed his wallet and keys, walked over to where the gun and ID were, stuck the ID in the inner pocket of his jacket and the gun at his back in the waist of his leather pants, and hefted the body over his shoulder. It wasn't as heavy as it looked, he was pleased to note.
Once in his apartment building's parking garage, he had made it down the elevator from his penthouse apartment and out through the building past the security guard without incident, the man at the desk even saying the usual "Good morning, Mr. Sands." He hadn't responded to the man's cheery greeting, but that wasn't unusual for him. Coming to stand in front of his car, he had never before hated it as much as he did now. The sleek black Jaguar would stick out like a sore thumb in the areas he needed to go, but there was nothing he could do about it. He didn't have access to his other cars at this time of night, so he would have to make do. "At least it's not the Lamborghini," he thought wryly. "There would be no way to fit a body inside that car." Juggling the body and his keys, he managed to open the trunk without dropping either and deposited the body laden garment bag inside.
Making his way quickly out of the garage, he didn't exactly speed down DC's streets, but he didn't exactly go the speed limit either. He wasn't really worried about cops, but getting pulled over would just be a perfect complement to this already fucked up beyond all belief day, and it wasn't even dawn yet. He could just imagine the conversation in his head, "Why no, officer. I don't know where the body came from. Yes, she does appear to be murdered, doesn't she?" No fucking thanks.
***
Although he had never attempted to dispose of a body in his life, at least he didn't think he ever had, but his memory was playing tricks on him recently, Sands knew of more than one way to manage it. Even if he hadn't known such knowledge scientifically, he had certainly seen enough movies and read enough books on the subject. There was dismemberment, messy but effective. But Sands had neither the time nor the inclination to dismember someone in the wee hours of the morning. That left more scientific methods of disposal, which he ultimately preferred over the more barbaric means. All he needed to do was get his hands on some lye or acid. Either wouldn't be easy to come by at this time of day, but he thought he could manage. He knew the city offered Sodium Hydroxide or lye at it was more commonly known, for farmers for use in balancing out the pH levels in the soil of their fields. Not that DC had any farmland, but the surrounding area most certainly did, and even if he couldn't get his hands on any at a farm supply store, he knew that the lawn waste disposal people in the city offered it as well.
Breaking in one of these buildings and taking what he needed had been so easy it left him not with an accomplished feeling at getting away with it, but a more disgusted feeling that if he had actually gotten caught it would have been more worth it somehow. This wasn't a very helpful state of mind to be in, but he couldn't help it; he was annoyed.
Driving to what looked like the seediest section of the entire city, Sands smiled and got out of the car, opening the trunk and getting the body out, slinging it over a shoulder. He didn't bother locking it, because if anyone was foolish enough to try stealing his car, he would have a hell of a time tracking them down and well, killing them. No, if they lay a hand on his Jag killing them wasn't punishment enough. While gruesome torture scenarios ran through his head, he walked up to the grimy motel he had parked in front of.
The woman at the front desk, who was upon closer inspection actually a man, raked his/her eyes slowly over Sands' dark form, not hiding her/his pleasure. "Whoo-whee, where did you come from, stranger?" the transvestite asked in a breathy voice, fanning herself/himself a little with the fashion magazine she had been flipping through with her ridiculously long blue fingernails tipped hands. "I'm Rhonda Starr, but you can call me Big Rhonda, sugar. If you know what I mean," she winked at him. "Are you just interested in a room or would you like some company to go along with it?" This was accompanied with a waggle of her arched eyebrows suggestively in Sands' direction.
Sands struggled to keep his face free of the revulsion that welled up within him, and even managed a smile as he said to her, "Not tonight, sugarbutt." She tittered at this. "But I am interested in a room for a few days."
Big Rhonda made a tsking sound with her tongue. "No can do, cutie. We only give rooms by the hour, not the day."
"Well then simply charge me for 72 hour's worth. I'll pay whatever you want." Sands said slowly, trying not to seem desperate. Which he wasn't really, but he didn't feel like searching out another hour-rate motel like this one at the moment.
Rhonda's flirtations paused for a moment, and a look of suspicion crossed her face and her eyes passed over the garment bag balanced over his shoulder. Deciding that she had seen weirder things in her life, the look of suspicion on her face was replaced by a look that could only be described as sultry. The thought of sharing the room he was about to rent, even for only a few of the hours he was paying for...she had to fan herself briskly again.
This specimen of man in front of her/him was indeed worthy of her interest, but now it seemed that there was something about him. Something...off. It sent a chill down her spine. Now, the chill could have been due to the fact that she was wearing a bright blue mid-thigh length skin-tight dress in the middle of October, but she doubted it. No, the chill definitely emanated from the dark young man in front of her. Not that he had dark skin, no in fact his skin was the color of fresh snow, and now that she was really looking at him as a person rather than as a potential partner, he looked damn creepy in the fluorescent lights; somewhat ethereal. And the black on black ensemble didn't help. His face seemed to glow, floating above a sea of darkness. And while he was smiling at her, his eyes weren't in on it. No, taking a good look at his eyes, seemingly as black as his clothing in this light, the chill deepened and she shuddered.
Sands caught the shudder and his forced smile slipped a little from his face before he could stop it. 'She suspects something,' Sands thought to himself. 'She was horribly flirting with me one minute, and now she's looking at me as if I sprouted devil's horns and a forked tail. This isn't good.' Sands unconsciously shifted the garment bag on his shoulder, the girl was beginning to get heavy, and the action drew an even more suspicious glance. "Is something wrong?" Sands asked, breaking the eerily still silence that had pervaded the room. Rhonda jumped. Sands narrowed his eyes before he could stop himself. "Do I frighten you, sugar?" he couldn't help asking, leaning in toward the desk, invading her personal space a little. He had always liked intimidating people, and this was no different.
"No, no....not really," Rhonda said a bit shakily, clearly lying. "You really want a room for 72 hours? I can do that," she did a quick calculation in her head which impressed Sands somewhat, and spoke, "Seven dollars an hour for three nights is $504.00." The number was much higher than she had wanted it to be, because she was afraid of the man's reaction to the large sum. She was more than willing to bargain at this point; anything to get him to leave. She was no longer interested in sharing that room with him any longer.
'You're going to have to kill her, you know,' the voice in his head whispered. 'She's too suspicious and we can't have that,' Sands found himself agreeing. "No problem," Sands said, leaning slightly to the side to balance the body on his shoulder so he could free his hands to get to his wallet. He pulled out 5 crisp hundred dollar bills and a fifty as well. "Keep the change, sugar," he said, handing them to her with as real a smile as he could manage. She merely nodded and took the cash without a word. She handed him a key with the number 13 on it and he nearly laughed out loud. Fate certainly seemed to have a twisted sense of humor this morning. "Could you show me where this is, sugar? I'd really appreciate it," Sands said, his smile coming a little easier than before, but still forced.
"Uh, sure," Rhonda said slowly, stepping out from behind the desk. She very much would have liked to say no, but she couldn't think of a good excuse for why she didn't want to. Although, this man, while definitely creepy, couldn't do anything to her. Looking over him once more, she saw that with his lean form he probably couldn't even knock her over. She was 6'6'' in heels, and one tough cookie when the chips were down if she could say so herself. In fact, in the light of this assessment, she was no longer afraid of him and couldn't figure out why she had been in the first place. He wasn't a very large man, almost painfully thin, and his skin wasn't quite as pale as she had first thought. Perhaps it was the black clothes that had lent the air of danger around him. He was certainly dressed to kill. One thing Rhonda knew was clothes, and the black on black outfit he was wearing certainly wasn't cheap.
"Lead the way," the man drawled. Rhoda frowned as she realized she didn't know his name. When she had told him hers, she had been too distracted by the sight of him to think of asking. "Hey, what's your name, by the way?" She asked over her shoulder, walking toward his room.
Sands rolled his eyes at such an inane question at this point in time, but answered her anyway, "Sands."
"Sands?" she asked in a confused tone of voice. "That isn't your first name, is it?"
Sands sighed, but figured what the hell. He was about to kill her anyway. "No, my name is Sheldon Jeffrey Sands."
The transvestite did the worst of all possible actions. She laughed. She right out laughed at his name, and he felt himself grow very still and very cold. Even if he hadn't already planned on killing her for her suspicions regarding the body in the garment bag gaining weight his shoulder, no one insulted his despised first name and got away with it. "Yeah, Sheldon. I know. What a name," he said around clenched teeth.
"I can see why you go by Sands. It suits you somehow. Have you ever thought about going by S.J though?" Rhonda asked, still chuckling softly.
Sands wrinkled his nose in distaste. "S.J.? That's almost as bad as Sheldon. Definitely not."
Rhonda shrugged and walked on in silence until she reached the door. Sands handed her his key over his shoulder and indicated that he would like her to open it due to the rather unwieldy burden he was carrying on his shoulder. While she was opening the door, Sands reached around to where he had stuck the girl's handgun in his pants, and pulled it out, putting his finger on the trigger and holding it close to his right pant leg.
When she finally opened the door he pushed her through it and immediately turned around and locked it behind him. The sharp push had caused her to lose her balance in the 3 inch blue heels she was wearing and she went down in a flash, a hint of blue lingerie showing from underneath her dress as her legs spread wildly. Without a word, Sands pressed the .22 to the back of her head and pulled the trigger.
***
'In retrospect, killing the desk clerk might not have been such a good idea, Sands,' the voice in his head piped up. 'You're lucky people in this neighborhood are used to gunshots and no longer call the cops when they hear one. You know that right?'
"Shut up," Sands muttered. He was shocked at his actions however. He had never killed anyone in his life; at least, no one that he could remember, until now. The feeling of power he had felt holding the gun at the back of the transvestite's head had floored him. As soon as the deed was over, he had had to sit down on the hard bed and wait as the slightly dizzy and giddy feeling passed.
The two 'women,' he now used this term lightly after having to strip down the supposedly 'Big Rhonda,' were lying with their heads at opposite ends in the bathtub. The lye was sizzling merrily away and doing its work well, helped along by the water he had splashed on both bodies. He was careful to not get any on himself. He didn't want anything tying him back to this room once he was finished. He had made sure not to touch anything without gloved hands, and no one had seen him enter the building or the room save for Rhonda, and she wasn't a problem any longer. The only real problem was his Jag parked out front, sticking out like a crow among doves. He needed to do something about that soon. But right now, the adrenaline that had been fueling his activities this morning wore off, and he found himself asleep on the hard motel mattress before he could stop himself.
TBC
A/N: Ok, that got a little long, wow. Hope you liked it. There's more fun to come!!! :-) Please post your reviews and lemme know if you're still liking it!!