Prelude to a Waltz
McTaggart took an extra long drag from his king-sized Marlboro and braced himself mentally for the task ahead. In 27 years on the force he’d never experienced anything like what he encountered less than 48 hours ago. Everytime he closed his eyes the grisly images flashed by in rapid succession. Hands and feet bound. Bloody razor sharp barbed wire. A multitude of deep crisscrossed slashes exposing raw muscle and sinew. And, as always, the goddamned signature mask. Lips curled up in a sarcastic sneer. Eyes meticulously sewn shut with bright pink thread. McTaggart knew she was laughing at them. She had been for months, but now they had her. He really had her. Sitting there just beyond the cold black steel door. One more quick drag. Deep breath, interrupted by a hack. Promised himself right there he’d quit once this one was over. Of course this wasn’t the first time he’d declared such a foolish pact.
Bull rushing in he stopped up dumb seeing the long blonde locks draped over petite shoulders. Undeterred he started right in, “Ok, you sick little fuck. Time’s up.” Far too many seconds ticked by. No response. Molten lava flowed just below his skin inflaming this tiny hairs on his forearms. McTaggart gripped and spun the nondescript aluminum office chair. Their eyes locked and a short quick twinkle caused him to recoil again. The mask’s smirk made its way through the ether to land on her otherwise sweet face. All of his training and time on the force did little to help him reconcile the monstrous actions of this tiny perp. Just then, as if cued from somewhere offstage, she leaned in and whispered, “I’ve been so waiting to meet you Mickey. Let’s slow dance a while shall we?”
