The plastic was easier to get loose this time, but Mitchell was definitely heavier than his brother’s wife. Unlike the time Parker spent on Phillip, he’d been pressed for time with his brother, Stephen, so corners had to be cut. A hedge trimmer and pinking shears were his weapons of choice on Stephen, and the sodium carbonate bath was out of the question. Phillip’s disappearance was easily explained with a few maneuverings from the older Mitchell’s office. The man rarely showed up at his family’s business. His corner office with its view of the bay mostly hosted high-powered guests. No, Stephen’s staff had done a great job of dancing around Phillip’s absence, but Stephen Mitchell dropping off the grid was going to blow up in someone’s face.
And Parker planned to be long gone before the cops started taking down names for that particular bukake contest.
He wasn’t going to go for shock this time. No, Parker wanted something else instead.
This time, he wanted to see the pain he could cause. Up close, so he could taste it on Damien Mitchell’s skin and smell it coming off the young man’s body in redolent waves for his pleasure.
Parker dragged a chair over to the dining area and began to reassemble his former employer. A knee gave him a bit of trouble, and he had to twist it to break it until he could have it dangle properly over the seat. Once he was done shoving the thighs against the man’s trunk, Parker stepped back to examine his work.
The man’s arms were a bit slack, but there was no helping that. He’d left the house without any baling wire or duct tape. To his amazement, the chateau’s garage and gardening shed were sorely lacking in supplies, and he’d had to make do with what he already had on hand. Metal kabob skewers were a partial solution. The points were sharp enough to slide through the meat of the man’s arms to pin them to his sides, but they left the shoulders loose, and Parker could easily see a bit of space between them and the body.
“Can’t help it.” He shrugged, wiping his hands on a towel. “Okay, now for the head.”
After seeing both Mitchell brothers up close, Parker was pretty sure Phillip’s wife had jumped the fence at some point to have her eggs primed by some other guy. Neither brother looked anything like Damien Mitchell. Their thinning hair ran to a gingery brown, and both men were square blocks of meat, difficult to move after they were killed.
“Your nephew’s going to be a hell of a lot easier.” Parker plopped his boss’s head onto his neck stump. “Murphy probably won’t be, but it doesn’t matter what happens to him. He can rot here for all I care.”
Phillip’s skull grinned up at him from the bottom of the cart, and Parker removed it carefully, not wanting to jiggle off the jawbone he’d finally found amid the rest of the man’s stripped bones.
“You, sir, are a handsome looking skull.” Parker matched the man’s bony grin. “Let’s put you on the dining table so I don’t forget you.”
A dark blue duffel was all that remained in the cart, and Parker took his time removing it. At first unsure about where he wanted to set up, he paced around the house, weighing the pros and cons of each space. Some part of him was saddened by the lack of blood, its metallic taint buried beneath the gloss of lemon oil and fresh paint. In some ways, he was being given a new canvas, but he mourned the loss of his previous masterpiece.
If only he’d been present for its unveiling.
It was the one thing he’d always been missing, and with Murphy, that desire would soon be fulfilled.
“You know what would be nice? If I left Murphy alive until your son got here,” he said to Phillip’s grinning skull. “Just to take a little walk on the wild side before I let him join you. I’ve never really had an audience while I’ve worked.”
The dining room table was a thick, sturdy piece, and even though Parker was drawn to the coffee table in the middle of the living room, Murphy’s size would make carving him up difficult if he wasn’t fully secured. After eyeing the living space one final time, he reluctantly returned to where he’d left Stephen Mitchell, a rag doll of a man held together with skewers and a prayer.
Unzipping the duffel took time. Things had shifted inside during the transport down from Muir, and he struggled to undo the tang. Yanking it open, Parker yelped, nearly stabbing himself on a thick chopping blade he’d taken from the chateau’s kitchen. He sucked at the stinging cut, stared at it for a moment, then shook his fingers when nothing welled up. Reaching in carefully, he unpacked his tools, lining up the blades he’d chosen for the task.
A strange hum echoed through the ceiling, and Parker frowned, looking up. He grabbed a small box out of the duffel and strode into the living room, trying to find the source of the sound when the small whispering drone grew louder, then ended suddenly. A whoosh echoed through the space, and he froze, suddenly realizing what he was hearing.
“No. No. No. It’s too soon,” Parker muttered, flicking on a Taser he’d brought with him. “I’m not ready!”
He’d been expecting Murphy. Even primed for the man, if he were being honest, and for all his faults, Parker certainly prided himself for being truthful.