Hell's Door Read online

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  Hell’s Door © 2013 by Sandy DeLuca

  All Rights Reserved.

  A DarkFuse Release

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For Mom because you loved a good mystery…

  And for Dad because you introduced me to Hitchcock…

  Acknowledgements and Notes

  Hell’s Door is based on a short story, published in Divas of Darkness, an anthology from Thievin’ Kitty Publications (edited by Greg. F. Gifune) in 2000. The novella is set in Providence, Rhode Island, but I’ve taken artistic liberty with certain streets, establishments and landmarks, especially concerning the area known as Federal Hill.

  Thanks to Dave Thomas, Shane Ryan Staley and Greg F. Gifune for their encouragement, support and belief in my work.

  Thanks to friends and relatives who realize that art is an integral aspect of my life—and for those who do not realize its importance, please know that it takes time and a great deal of work, so when I do not answer my phone, or cannot join you in social events, be assured that I am creating a happy and fulfilling life with my fiction and painting—and I know you want happiness for me—as I do for you. Thank you to my readers for your continued interest in my fiction.

  1

  Lacey stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel, and then stopped for a moment to look into the full-length mirror. She remained in shape—despite an insatiable appetite—possessing curvy hips and full breasts. Men found her attractive, but she shunned them, pouring time and energy into her job.

  She’d come to the Providence homicide unit a year ago, after serving in the Midwest, Atlanta, Los Angeles—as well as numerous town precincts throughout the United States. She’d teamed up with John Demmings, a cop who didn’t always follow procedure—a perfect addition to her own unorthodox style. Several arrests had been made during that year, including a drug dealer who’d killed several kids in drive-by shootings, a guy who’d killed and preyed on the elderly, and a man who’d shot and killed his girlfriend in a jealous rage.

  In August 2012 the team seemingly worked from dusk to dawn to catch a sadistic murderer who was maiming and torturing the city’s stable of working girls—beheading them and apparently eating their flesh. The prime suspect was a woman—an infamous pimp—named Ramsay Wolfe; a lady who ruled her stable with force and manipulation, and owner of a nightspot called Hell’s Door—a den of deviance. Police suspected Ramsay had an accomplice who remained in the city’s shadows—coming forward to assist the unscrupulous procurer in some of the city’s most heinous murders on record.

  “I’m taking you down, Ramsay,” whispered Lacey as the overhead light flickered above her, casting patches of light and shadow over her body, making her realize that every beautiful woman has flaws—things she’d like to change. She sighed deeply, and then wrapped the towel around her torso, as the effects of humidity and stifling heat began to plague her. She dressed quickly, choosing shorts and a thin button-down blouse—knowing death would be inevitable for those who chose to walk in the city’s darkest corners.

  * * *

  Oppressive heat plagued Providence. Day three and temperatures soared to one hundred and two degrees Fahrenheit. A citywide blackout had afflicted the city for forty-eight hours. Local hospitals were inundated with heat-related maladies, and several elderly people did not survive the long, hot nights.

  But Mother Nature was not the only killer that summer. Someone preyed on women who worked on lonely street corners and frequented seedy bars, those forced to ignore extreme weather in hopes of scoring cash—and finding temporary comfort within an air-conditioned hotel room, or the backseat of a car.

  Gabriel sometimes watched those women as they slept, or spied on them as they engaged in unclean acts, loving them all. And some were exceptional women to be savored, enjoyed…and killed slowly. They were the prettiest, the youngest and the ones he cared about the most. He took them to a special place, chaining them in darkness, hanging them by their wrists. He’d embellish their beauty, stripping them of flawless skin, severing limbs and pouring blood in copper bowls. Later the bodies would be taken care of, maybe cemented into walls, or laid out in mourning by the ocean, or near a historic landmark. It would all come together with time…with patience…and with adoration.

  “I’m coming, my love,” Gabriel called out as he made his way to the basement. Rats scurried when he flicked on an overhead light. He moved slowly to a girl he’d left there two days before. She was beautiful. They were all beautiful, even though some bore the marks of years on the streets—scars from abusive pimps, skin dry and yellow from too much drink, poor sleep and horrific eating habits.

  But this one had been only a girl…wayward…used in a multitude of porn flicks produced on the South Side. He’d met her one afternoon, when she’d emerged from the old theater where she performed, asking if she wanted to do a private session, and he produced a wad of cash, watching as her eyes lit up. And he’d filmed her on the hotel bed he’d covered with colored feathers and roses…touching herself, smiling for him and screaming when he began to cut her.

  Now he stroked her flesh. The woman was cold. Her body stiff, but lovely from blonde curly hair to toes painted the color of cotton candy. She’d hung there for those two days. Her blood had dried, thickened in pools on the floor, and her eyes were swollen.

  He turned, and then rolled up his sleeves, removing bottles, filled with colored liquids, from utility shelves. He rummaged through perfumes, lotions and scented powders, lined up in neat rows.

  “You are loved, my dear. If you only knew how much…”

  He poured lotion into his palm, applying it to her skin, humming softly.

  He plucked a brush from the shelf, dipped it into the pan, and then he spun on his heels, painting her body, starting from her forehead, and quickly moving to her feet. He resembled a passionate artist, making frenzied brushstrokes, leaving nothing untouched by the mixture.

  The body began to shudder, and then clear blue eyes opened and thin arms reached out.

  His voice was somber. “Sleep. In another day you’ll be free.” He kissed her, and then rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “I’ll be back later to strip you of that lovely skin. I’m so sorry. I’ve tried to stop, but my sister tells me what to do…and she brings me to the ones who need to be saved.” His eyes were moist. Each time it got easier, and it felt as though he truly gave each girl a gift.

  The woman sobbed. Her cries of anguish were joined by others who waited in the dark.

  He left them, remembering work that needed to be done. “Somebody else is waiting for me,” he whispered, and his footsteps echoed when he climbed the stairs. “I’m doing what you ask, Sister. Show me the others and I’ll go to them—forgive me—and we’ll be together just like before.”

  2

  The power kicked in before sunrise on August 25, when Detectives Lacey Powers and John Demmings studied photographs tacked to a wall, noting the dead—four in all—bore similar wounds, with slashes across the chest and belly, and bite marks on arms and legs. The killer severed the first victim’s fingers and the hands and feet of the others—the appendages always arranged in a pile. All the bodies were naked, except for stockings or socks, and their panties had been bunched around their ankles. The ME reported no vaginal or anal fluids, but in some instances wooden splinters had been evident in orifices. All of the heads had been severed,
most likely carried away by the killer—macabre trophies of a killing spree.

  An opposite wall displayed four other photographs—missing women who’d also partaken in decadent lifestyles, disappearing without a trace, and leaving behind all their possessions. A worried sister reported the first disappearance when phone messages went unanswered for days. The other three had roommates, stating the girls had vanished without taking jewelry, clothes or money they’d stashed.

  Lacey arranged the photos in a neat pile, and then slipped them into a manila folder. “Talked to our informant—Anna DeLaro, and she claims all the victims partied with Ramsay Wolfe. Girl told me sometimes Ramsay has gatherings of sorts at her place—an apartment over the club—Hell’s Door. She’s into this devil worship crap, but it’s a ploy for power—for dominance on the streets. Ramsay threatens the girls with hoodoo crap…just to keep them in line.”

  “It’s always about manipulation, domination and control.” John’s eyes were bloodshot and he looked thinner than a few weeks back. Sleepless nights and stress from the case had taken a toll on him.

  “Captain wants us undercover at Ramsay’s club—tonight. O’Reilley and Smalling grilled her a few times at the station—and spent some time at the club, but she doesn’t know us—and except for an informant or two, neither does anyone else who works the streets.” Lacey folded her arms over her chest. “I think we’ll catch her in the act.”

  John moved closer to her, speaking softly. “So do I.”

  “Meet you there later—around midnight? Smalling says that’s about the time things start happening.”

  “Sure. You had breakfast yet?”

  Lacey’s voice remained even, measured. “Yeah, grabbed something earlier. You’re not going back home?”

  “No, it’s over between Laura and me.”

  “Well, if you love her, you’ve got to keep trying.”

  “I don’t think I do…not that way…I’ve wanted to—”

  “Hey, I’ll see you, okay? Got to try to catch some sleep now that the power is back on.”

  She left his side, knowing she might have hurt him, but he didn’t understand—not yet—not until the rains came.

  * * *

  John watched Lacey move away, thinking maybe he’d get something going with his partner—after cutting all ties with Laura. His wife didn’t love him anymore and she’d made it clear by ordering him to leave. A few days ago he’d gone to her dress shop on Atwells Avenue, long after closing. A stranger’s car had been parked outside—a car with power tools stacked in the rear and Men’s Health magazines on the front seat. Dim lights reflected from behind the blinds. When stepping close to the window, he caught glimpses of Laura in another man’s arms.

  He told himself it didn’t matter now. And maybe nothing mattered but Lacey Powers. She’d worked in law enforcement across the country before coming to Providence, and she’d brought rumors of being something of a hot dog—a good cop—but one who took chances and often bucked procedure, which led to her movement from department to department. He liked to take chances, too, and in the short while they had been partnered, John had come to trust her instincts, so despite his apprehension that she’d allowed this case to obsess her, he went along, hoping her drive would again prove correct.

  He smiled, thinking he might just follow her to hell. And ultimately he did…

  3

  Gabriel prayed for rain. He loved to walk in it, to feel it on his skin—to kill in it. It had been raining when Sister died; a month after she’d ordered him to sleep in the basement. Because she didn’t like the way he looked at Madeline—his younger sister.

  How he’d loved Madeline when they were children, cradling her in his arms when she cried and caring for her when Sister could not. Madeline didn’t care that he’d been different, born with a curse.

  Madeline was beautiful, with dimpled cheeks, curly blonde hair and bright blue eyes. She grew more stunning as she matured, but Sister’s constant condemnation and verbal abuse broke the girl’s spirit—and self-worth. She craved love and attention—and destroyed herself further when she sought it.

  In school, other kids talked about how Madeline liked to go parking by the lake, and the boys would take turns with her. And later Gabriel would stand over her bed, wondering if she dreamed of those boys—and what they did to her. Did she feel shame? Or did she do it to feel alive—and loved?

  One night he went to Madeline’s room, a butcher knife from the kitchen tucked in his pocket, and the leg from one of Sister’s broken chairs in his belt. And he began to cut Madeline, making circles on her bare chest, and then stabbing her in the throat when her eyes opened, and when her mouth formed a silent scream. He pushed the broken chair leg inside her, and asked, “Is it okay now, Madeline?”

  But she was still, with those bright blue eyes staring at the ceiling—cracked plaster and crimson splatters.

  The blood fascinated him as it flowed onto sheets, trickled from the bed and onto the floor, and there were vermillion droplets on the wall behind Madeline.

  And he wasn’t sure if he’d saved her, so he began to saw at her neck. And he kept on sawing, knees straddling Madeline, eyes burning. Before long he held her head in his hands, knowing that his love—her death—had been a good thing.

  Inside his head, Sister called to him, telling him he was no good—would never be—but he wanted to take Sister’s place—to be her—and he continued to listen to that menacing voice as he held Madeline, until the downstairs clock chimed midnight, and then he went to Sister’s room, bludgeoning her to death with a tire iron he’d found in the garage. But her voice still sounded in his head, so he cut out her larynx and pushed it down the garbage disposal.

  Now it was Gabriel’s time, so he dressed in Sister’s clothes, and then drove her car down the highway, as rain poured down, traveling from sunrise to sunset until he reached the desert, and then to a city blazing with light—Las Vegas—where so many women needed his love. And he pronounced, “I’m just like you, dear Sister.”

  Sister once told him he could be anyone he wanted to be, and through the years he became people he’d met on the road, killing them, and then stealing their possessions, living their lives—if necessary—so he could carry out his work…and those he killed remained inside him, making him strong, speaking to him and bringing him to his destiny.

  * * *

  Midnight and still ninety degrees Fahrenheit—and groups of people crammed into air-conditioned bars and restaurants, sipping tall, cool drinks—girls dressed in cutoffs and halter tops, sporting upswept hair and sandaled feet, most too afraid to venture out alone—and men wearing muscle shirts lined the walk beside flashy bikes and cars—and they took their time eyeing pretty women, sauntering inside where beer and icy drinks quenched parched throats. Others locked their doors and relished the luxury of cold air.

  Hell’s Door was jamming with exiles from the heat, and the clientele was uninhibited, and looking for aberrant thrills, while Lacey and John sought a murderer.

  They walked inside together, shoulder to shoulder, Lacey dressed in tight black shorts, silver sandals and a thin white halter—with a jeweled replica of Michael the Archangel around her neck. John in a muscle shirt and cutoffs emblazoned with skulls.

  “Doesn’t Michael protect cops?” John gazed at the necklace.

  “Some say so.” She laughed slightly, and then wrinkled her nose. “This music isn’t my cup of tea.”

  Old disco tunes blasted from speakers as drag queens sipped from oversized wineglasses, donned in feather boas, form-fitting dresses and five-inch high heels. And rough trade came in from the heat, preening, flexing muscles and smiling for gay men who drank beer, talked about their civil rights, and lamented about friends who’d died years before medicine and government gave a damn about the AIDS epidemic.

  Plastic dykes, dressed in shiny combat boots and bomber jackets, circulated with chapstick lesbians and stone butches—flirting, laughing, and sometimes speaking softly a
bout the dead and missing. Hookers made deals with regular tricks, buying drinks in frosty glasses and casting sidelong glances to the door. Everyone knew everyone else, all part of dark desire, hopeless addicts gathered to exchange pleasure.

  Red lights flashed. A stripper danced topless on the bar, red hair flying as she removed her G-string. A man grabbed her, carried her off into a corner. Her laughter rang out like a wicked melody, as shadows devoured them. Others crowded the dance floor—dressed in leather, covered with tattoos, piercings and gothic jewelry. People seated at tables drank whiskey, popped Ecstasy and smoked pot.

  Men took in Lacey’s firm breasts and long, firm thighs. A man with dark hair, day-old stubble and a raven tattoo on his neck leaned close to her, whispering, “Meet you later in one of the back rooms?”

  She hitched her thumb in John’s direction, telling him, “Not tonight.”

  So the guy shot John a sidelong glance, and then disappeared into a throng of goths.

  The detectives walked past a trio of pretty girls, decked in matching purple and pink dresses, waving fingers with silver and gold nails, and then they eased by a man singing to himself.

  Lacey nestled closer to John, brushing her hand over his belt, teasing him, as she moved her hand lower.

  “Feels good when you do that.” He wrapped his arm around her, and she felt his heart, remembering it had been a while since she’d been so close to a man, thinking of long-ago nights spent down South, sleeping in an attic room, and a boy from town, who’d flirted with her at school, and tapped on her window late at night. And she let him inside, knowing heartbreak was inevitable, but not being able to help herself.