Killers

[intheheart]

Title: Killers
Rating: R for violence and language.
Summary: Aaron decides to remove Ivy's biological father from the equation, permanently.
Date: 2015
AU: Sociopathic Besties
Notes: This is a noncanon followup to Family. Thanks to Sara for her help with this! The Corlionis belong to her, Kelly and Geena.
WARNING for sociopathy, outright murder, and general terrible-personhood.


Bradley Spitzer opened his eyes on darkness.

It stayed that way for a confused minute while he tried to figure out where he was and why he was sitting upright. Had he been that drunk last night? It had been a long time since he'd fallen asleep sitting up.

But then, it had been a long time since he'd had a disappointment like he'd had last night, too. He set his jaw. Stupid little bitch, talking that way to him. He was her father, wasn't he? You'd think she'd have had some respect for the man who gave her life. And that whore who called herself a mother! She must've been really angry that he'd seen through her little trap, if she'd spent these past years filling the brat's ears with poison.

Fuck them both, anyway. He didn't need them. He'd find someone else, someone who respected him like he deserved, and he'd leave those bitches behind in the dust.

But the way she'd spoken to him!

He ground his teeth at the thought, then yelped as a spike of pain hit him in the temple, and tried to raise his hand to massage it away. It took him a few seconds of pulling before he realized his wrist was tied quite securely to the arm of the chair.

"What the fuck?" he yelped.

Something clicked, and he yelped again as the room was flooded with brilliant white light, temporarily blinding him. "Ah, Mr. Spitzer," someone said, as he squinted against the light. "I'm so pleased you're awake."

He blinked rapidly, trying to see. The wash of white gave way to dancing spots. "What the fuck is going on?" he demanded.

"Please, Mr. Spitzer," the voice said again. "There's no need for vulgarity. All of your questions will be answered in time."

It was a male voice, he could tell that much. Someone he'd pissed off? Brad flipped back through his mental rolodex, trying to place it. Angry father? Someone he'd cheated? It wasn't ringing any bells. Maybe his bitch daughter had a boyfriend or something.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked. His eyes were starting to adjust; he could see a faint shadow of a man in front of him now in a room that was otherwise nothing but bright, sterilized white. Tarps, maybe? Whitewash?

"Fair enough," the man said, and the shadow took a seat in front of him. "My name is Aaron Kendall."

Kendall? He didn't know anyone named Kendall. Unless... wait, hadn't his daughter... "You're the bastard that took my little girl!" he snarled.

There was a bark of coolly amused laughter. "If you are referring to Ivy, no, I am not. I am her brother. The man I believe you are referring to is my father, and I would appreciate it if you didn't call him a bastard again."

"He stole my kid," Brad retorted, clenching his fists on the arms of the chair. "I'll call him anything I damn well want to."

The last of the dancing spots cleared, to reveal a man's face very close to his. Brad yelped again and tried to push backwards, but he only grabbed the chair and pulled it forwards.

"Call my father names one more time," Aaron Kendall said, voice very low, "and I will kill you on the spot. He is a far better man than you could ever hope to be."

Brad had been on the receiving end of many, many death threats during his life. This was the first time he'd ever believed one.

He gulped, and nodded. "All right," he said. "All right. I won't. Don't hurt me."

Kendall released the chair, and sat back down in the metal folding chair he'd set up facing Brad, expression once again pleasantly neutral. "That seems fair," he said. "So. You had other questions."

"What am I doing here?" Brad asked. It was clearly in his best interests to be polite.

Kendall shrugged, and examined his nails for a moment. "You upset my sister," he said. "Not much gets to her like that. I was curious." He switched that calculating, examining gaze to Brad. "I can't say that I think much of you, now that we've met."

Brad, though stung, went into damage control. "I didn't mean to upset her," he said. "I only wanted to see my little girl again."

"Yes," Kendall said, still eyeing him. "So you've said. The trouble is, Mr. Spitzer, I don't believe you."

"It's the truth!" he exclaimed, in his best tone of wounded innocence.

The other man ignored this. "You're a user, Mr. Spitzer," he said. "I don't like users."

"I don’t know what you're talking about," Brad said, and rolled his eyes.

"Don’t you?" Kendall gave him a mildly interested look, then produced a piece of paper from his breast pocket. "Let's see," he said, putting on a pair of glasses that made him look simultaneously more nerdy and more terrifying. "I found three children with your name listed as father on the birth certificate. Not counting my sister, of course, and any others like her who have since been adopted. Two of these children live in abject poverty. Their mothers get progressively younger, from my stepmother at twenty-eight to the latest at barely eighteen." He glanced up at Brad over his glasses. "Eighteen. That’s perilously close to stautory rape, Mr. Spitzer."

"She lied to me," Brad said, and sneered in disgust at the memory. Such a clinging, whiny bitch. He should never have fucked her. "She told me she was twenty-two."

"Mm," Kendall said. "Were older women proving too smart for you? Ah well, that's irrelevant. The fact remains that you have seen none of these children since they were very small. You certainly have contributed nothing emotionally or financially towards their upbringing, despite being worth..." He flipped the paper over. "My goodness. Nearly two million dollars. This, although you have never held a steady job."

"How the fuck do you know that?" Brad exclaimed.

Kendall glanced at him over the top of his glasses again. "I have a very good friend with a lot of reach," he said. "Should you, by some impossible mischance, get away from me, rest assured that she will track you down." He folded the paper up, put it in his breast pocket, and took off the glasses. "I am forced to conclude, Mr. Spitzer, that you make your money off your girlfriends. You use them, use them up, and then move on, and never spare a thought for them once you have. If they should get pregnant, why then, you leave all the faster."

"They're not my kids," Brad said, which was true; even Ivy he had his suspicions about. "Those cheating, lying whores tried to push off someone else's brat on me. Tried to trap me! I won't stand for it!"

"Oh, Mr. Spitzer," Kendall said, and shook his head, pityingly. "I'm beginning to think I should have let Maria have you. It certainly would have been fun to watch."

Have him? "I think it's time you answered a few of my questions," Brad said, in his best vaguely menacing tones. "Like why I'm here. And why I'm tied up."

Kendall watched him for a long, steady moment. "Hmm," he said, and then, "All right, why not."

Brad narrowed his eyes. "Are you going to explain?" he asked.

"Oh, yes. You see, Mr. Spitzer," he said, leaning forward, "I brought you here because I wanted to meet you. We are very much alike, you and I. We are both killers. The difference is that I only kill people. You kill lives."

Killers. The word echoed in his head.

Killers. I only kill people.

Killers.

What?

"I don't," he said, weakly.

"Oh, yes," Kendall said. "You do. You use people up, leave them in the dust, and tell yourself they were going to hurt you. You do all this because you're the only person who matters, in your head." He smiled. It was not a nice smile. "And this is where our resemblance ends. I know that other people aren't worth the dust in the street. I know that most of them deserve to be used. But you, Mr. Spitzer, you prey on the very few people who do not deserve it. You hurt the innocent and the helpless." He stood, brushed his hands down his pants. "And for that you deserve to die."

"What?" Brad screeched, jerking back and setting the chair he was tied to rocking. "What? You can't fucking kill me!"

Kendall drew a knife from a sheath at his belt, examined the blade with a curious smile on his face. "I think, Mr. Spitzer," he said, "you will find that I can. Quite easily, too. I have had a lot of practice." He reached out and steadied the chair with his free hand.

Brad's gaze locked on the knife and the way its blade glimmered under the flourescent lights. "You can't," he babbled, frantically, trying to talk his way out of it. "You can't. The police! The police will come! I'll scream so fucking loud they'll hear me in fucking Jersey and they'll come and arrest you and you'll get the goddamn death penalty!" He ran out of words and lapsed into silence, panting.

The other man gave this due consideration, then shook his head. "No, I don't think so," he said. "For one thing, you are in Jersey. In a parking structure, to be precise. We're in a neighborhood that is less civilized than most, where people don't come running when they hear screams. And, of course, the trailer is soundproofed."

Brad had begun to shiver, uncontrollable waves of shaking passing over his body. Kendall was still holding the chair, he was tied very firmly. He was not going to escape. "They'll still catch you," he whispered, hypnotized by the knife. "They'll still catch you."

"No," Kendall said, and his tone was almost pitying. "They won't. I'm very good at this, Mr. Spitzer. When I'm finished with you I'll burn this trailer. No one will find it until there's nothing left but ashes and bones. You'll be just another John Doe, claimed by the city." He considered again. "Although they are doing some quite amazing things with DNA these days, I understand. I suppose there is a tiny, tiny chance they will find something useful to identify you, and an even tinier chance that they will through some incredible stroke of luck connect you to me." He leaned forward. "If they do that, Mr. Spitzer, if they pick me up for questioning, do you know what will happen?"

Brad, mute, shook his head.

"My friend will come and change the game," Kendall said. "Have you ever heard of the Corlionis, Mr. Spitzer? They redefine getting away with murder. If, by some miracle, the police catch on, I will never be prosecuted. I will possibly never even be questioned. I have friends in high places, Mr. Spitzer, and they hate you just as much as I do."

Brad found his voice at last, somewhere in the depths of his stomach. "Why?" he whispered.

"Oh, dear, didn't I make that clear? Because you hurt the innocent, Mr. Spitzer," Kendall said. He smiled again, sharp and broad, and set the knife against Brad's cheek. "And because you made my sister cry."

After that, there was nothing but screaming.