Obnoxious and rude comments were yelled at her from car windows as they passed. Ignoring them, she continued strolling down the sidewalk, past loud bars and people sleeping bundled in sleeping bags in doorways. A dirty old pickup slowed as it pulled up to her, she looked over through her fake eyelashes. She frowned as she recognized the disgusting fat old man in the driver's seat. She shook her head and kept walking.

Dana watched as the man got turned down again. It was two months since she had moved into her new apartment, and for the last several Thursdays she had been watching him and following him. After finding out the extent of the abuse he had inflicted on Rachel from the autopsy report, her mind had taken a detour. She now knew his real name, and where he lived. Tonight she had been following him for two hours, hoping he would get bored and leave. The word on the street was that he was no one to get into a car with, for any amount of money. Most of the girls were in agreement, since Lola's body had been fished out of the river.

He drove up Burnside and instead of turning, he continued up to get the highway. Following at a safe distance, she kept a close watch on his taillights. After passing the Hillsboro exits, she was sure he was heading home. The box on the passenger seat next to her was filled with lots of fun toys. She could actually feel her blood pressure rise in anticipation.

He took the North Plains exit and drove up toward the hills. She was far enough back not to raise any suspicions. His driveway was long, the house set well back in the trees, and no neighbors within a half mile. He pulled off the road and turned into his driveway.

Dana had found a service trail off the shoulder of the road within easy walking distance of the house. Pulling over, she backed her car down the trail a bit, out of sight of the road. Grabbing her backpack out if the rear seat, she opened the box next to her and started transferring the contents into the pack. A small boxed set of knives she had found at the sporting goods store, it contained a selection of sharp blades for skinning and filleting game. A length of nylon rope went in. She also had a small bottle of lighter fluid and a metal tin containing a handful of toothpicks that had been soaked thoroughly in that same lighter fluid. At the hardware store, she had found long zip ties and a cordless butane soldering iron with several tips.

She was dressed all in black, wearing a nylon jogging suit that she had sprayed down with water repellent. Black slip-on shoes and black leather gloves completed her outfit. She climbed out of the car and pulled the backpack out. Reaching down under the fallen leaves, she pulled up a handful of mud, spreading it carefully over the reflective lenses on the car, as well as over the headlight covers. The wheels were dull enough; she didn't think they would reflect much from any headlights coming down the road. She took the single car key off the ring and left the rest of the keys in the car. Reaching down next to the seat, she took out a police baton and slid it through a loop on the backpack. Closing the door, she started walking toward the house.

One time before she had been here, when Donald had left for a few hours. There was an old tool shed in the back, and a cellar with doors that opened to the outside. The front door of the house had a lock on it, but there was a back door that she had rigged the lock on the last time she had visited. The cellar doors had a chain through the handles and were padlocked. The cellar itself was mostly empty; there were stacked boxes along one wall, and a newer furnace at one corner. A workbench on the opposite wall held a few random tools. A single light bulb with a chain pull was situated in the center of the room attached to the one supporting beam. There was a heavy eyebolt screwed into the beam, which she found very convenient.

As she got closer to the house, she saw that there was only one light on in the front window. Staying to the shadows, she walked around to the back door. Carefully turning the knob, she pushed the door inward as quietly as she could. She crossed through the kitchen and stood in the doorway to the front room. His back was to her; he was leaned back in a recliner. She glanced at the television. A cheesy seventies porno movie was playing on it. As she slipped up behind him, she saw that his pants were shoved down and one of his hands was pounding up and down violently.

Dana pulled the baton out of the backpack loop with barely a whisper of sound. Donald Amundsen was completely absorbed, he probably wouldn't have noticed a freight train horn going off next to him. She raised the baton and brought it down hard on the base of his skull.

He slumped over immediately, and sliding the backpack off her shoulders, she quickly pulled out the zip ties. Pushing him forward, she managed to get his hand behind his back and tied together. Taking one end of the rope, she slid it from the back under one arm, across his chest, under his other arm and tied a knot in the back. Threading it through a second time and knotting it again, she then made a loop in the rope and slipping it over her head, put one arm through.

She pulled the back of the recliner down until it hit the floor, and then began hauling on the rope. He slid out of the chair and onto the matted down carpet with a thud. Straining just a bit, she managed to drag the body through the kitchen and down into the cellar. The heavy body lay in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs. Dana took the loose end of the rope and pushed it through the eyebolt, pulling it through until the body was hauled upright. His toes barely touched the cellar floor; the rope around his chest suspended his weight. She tied another knot just under the one behind his back, and then looped the rope around his neck, tying it tightly again. His unbuttoned pants slid down around his ankles.

The backpack was still up in the front room, after making sure he was completely secure, she headed back up the stairs. The credits were running on the television, the porno was over. On an end table by the recliner, she found a pack of generic cigarettes and a lighter. Even though she had quit smoking several years ago, she had an urge and indulged it. Tapping one cigarette out of the pack, she held it up to her lips and flicked the lighter.

Amundsen opened his eyes. His vision was blurred and his head hurt. He tried to reach up to rub his eyes and realized that he couldn't move. He groaned loudly and blinked a few times to clear his sight. There was a woman sitting on the cellar steps watching him. She waited until he was fully conscious and turning red with anger. Dana had found a couple filthy rags in the kitchen and wadding one up in her hand, she stood up and walked over to him. As he opened his mouth to yell at her, she shoved the wadded up fabric into his mouth and held it there as she took the other rag and tied it around his head. It wasn't enough to choke him, unless he tried to swallow it. It did muffle his profanities, in any case.

His jerked and struggled in vain, her knots held tight. She picked up the backpack and set it on the workbench. Unzipping it, she began to take out her tools.

"You like hurting women, don't you?" she asked as she laid the tools out in an orderly manner. His muffled threats stopped. "Well, for tonight, I'm going to call myself Karma," she continued, "Even though it's not exactly karma that you are about to receive. It's going to be more like penance, or consequence. Because you made a mistake. A big one. And now it is time to pay the piper for your fun." She selected one of the knives from the box and then opened the tin of toothpicks. She picked one out, and satisfied that it was still damp with fluid, set it back down. Turning, she looked him over carefully. Holding the bottom of his smelly sweat-stained shirt, she slid the knife up, slicing it in half. Pushing the shirt apart and baring his flabby chest, she held the knife up and made a four-inch cut in the flesh above his left nipple. He howled in pain and jerked around, dancing like a puppet on strings. She slapped him hard across the face. On his right side, she made an identical cut and then turned back to the workbench. She set the knife down and picked up two of the toothpicks. With her left hand, she spread the first cut apart, and pushed the toothpick into it, with one end protruding up. Taking her lighter, she held the flame up to the sliver of wood and watched as it flared up.

Donald began screaming behind the gag. Although the sound was muffled, it was still fairly loud. But the fact they were in the basement and over half a mile from anyone, she knew no one would hear a thing.

She picked up the other toothpick and jammed it hard into the second cut. The first was still burning as she lit the next one. She made several more cuts and repeated the process all over his chest. The smell of burnt flesh permeated the entire cellar. Dana decided to take a break for a few minutes, and standing at the workbench, she started poking around in the shelves. There wasn't much there, just a few random bottles that she picked up to read the labels and then set back down. Until she picked up the last bottle. Glass etching solution? She didn't want to think about why he would have that, but she knew what she would be doing with it. Hydrofluoric acid had interesting effects on skin. She had learned that in a chemistry class years ago.

The last of the flames had gone out, leaving ugly black charred marks all across his body. He appeared to have passed out from the pain. No matter, she would be waking him up soon. She went back up to the kitchen to find a spoon.

At the sink, she found plenty of dirty dishes, no sense in using clean utensils. She turned the faucet on, running the cold water out. She filled a plastic cup with icy cold water, and then picked up a food-encrusted spoon from the bottom of the sink. She shut the water off and went back down.

Standing next to him, she dumped about half of the water over his head. His eyes quickly opened as she threw the rest of the water square into his face.

"Let's see, what next?" Dana looked at the cordless soldering iron. Picking it up, she turned to him and said, "How about this?" He just stared at her.

"Mmmm, I don't think so. At least not until you dry off a bit." She set it back down on the bench. "Yes, I think this should be next," she said as she picked up the police baton. She spun it around a few times, walking around Donald in a full circle. When she came back around to the front of him, she swung down hard. She heard a satisfying crack as the baton contacted his left shin. Stepping to his other side, she swung again, cracking the right shinbone. His high-pitched muffled shrieks were ignored as she knelt down to examine the compound fracture.

"Oh those are lovely," Dana said as she watched his lower legs turning black with bruising. "I wonder," she mused as she stood back up, "What color will the knees turn?" She swung backhand and hit the left kneecap dead on. It shattered with a sickening sound. Amundsen squealed again.

"You sound like a stuck pig," she muttered, disgusted by this repulsive sack of flesh. A new smell wafted toward her and she began to laugh. A steaming puddle was growing on the floor, dripping from his feet. She set the baton down on the workbench and went up the stairs. She was ready for a break, and wanted this to last much longer than the tortures he had forced on Rachel.