Chapter 1
The Killer
Disarming the security system and slipping over the fence had been easy, and he was quite pleased with himself. After all, the operation had been weeks in planning, and so far, everything was going according to that plan.
Weeks?
He had to laugh at that.
While the actual plan to exact his revenge upon those who humiliated him was only an infant in the whole scheme of things, the rage and real hate had been festering for years.
So long, he thought. So long, but now I feel I’m ready for it. Ready to make them pay.
He crawled through the dense shrubs and hollies surrounding the massive wrought iron fence and came to the edge of the lawn. The thick, lush blades were cut short and manicured to perfection by the army of servants she employed. The thought of all those people working for her made the bile back up, hot and stinging, in his throat.
Slaves, he thought. Slaves to her Hollywood wealth.
He looked up, across the great lawn, past pruned hedges and marble statues of pissing statues of animals and children, and there it was. Her great hall. A home that only your average Hollywood mega-star could haunt; big, expensive, a grandiose hovel carved from imported Italian stone and brick, all nestled snugly in a stand of palms and evergreens. A castle built for a celluloid queen. Built on the backs of people like him.
Oh, he would remind her of that fact soon. Very soon.
He watched outside a living room window as she fell into an over-stuffed sofa.
Hmmm. It’s exquisite. Mitchell Gold, no, Kincaid. Yes, Kincaid. A generously proportioned nail-trimmed winged sofa with distressed Flea Market leather. A Kincaid trademark.
He’d always been a fan of distressed leather.
She was dressed in a thick, white cotton bathrobe and matching head towel. Even through the thick, comfortable cotton, her trim, athletic body was evident. It made the little ball of hate in him throb just thinking of the time and money spent on such a petty thing.
One of the best bodies money can buy. I’ll bet she drops a couple of grand monthly for personal trainers and nutritionists. Hell, I’ll bet she’s got a couple of thousand tied up in her tits alone! I could have a body just like that if I had the money. Well, except for the tits.
She was on her phone now. Probably her agent or one of her ‘close personal friends.’ One who wasn’t in the business. The kind big stars like her always felt they needed around to keep them grounded.
He pressed his ear to a window looking in on the room, the glass cool to his skin. He could just make out her conversation.
’So I told him, you want to stay my agent, you get me that part. I mean, it was made for me. What did he do? Ha! What would any agent do- he shit his pants! What? No, I haven’t heard from bruce, not for some time. He’s in South Africa filming… I don’t know what it’s called, but I heard it’s a cross between Out of Africa and Reservoir Dogs… On Entertainment Tonight, he said it was, quote, a ‘Thinking Mans’ action film. Can you believe that? What a crock of shit… My opinion? Straight to video like the last one,’ she finished with a chuckle.
He couldn’t believe it! What outrageousness! What impudence! She was the queen of big-budget flops, of dollar-a-day rentals, yet she had the audacity to speak ill of The Bruce.
He had met The Bruce only once-it was while they were still Hollywood’s hottest couple-but he found him to be quite personable, affable even. True, The Bruce was passed out on the kitchen floor of Spago’s in a puddle of his own vomit. Still, he had a certain aura about him. He genuinely felt The Bruce was good people.
She was despicable for speaking ill of him. She was a blight upon the ass of entertainment, just like the rest of them.
The little ball of hate grew, strangling all other senses. Nothing could rise above the bloodlust he now knew. Nothing. Not even the pain from the thorns of the barrel cactus he straddled. Thorns which, even now, pierced the soft tissue between his anus and scrotum. The tender ‘gooch’ area. That pain was nothing compared to the pain she and her pack had caused him through the years.
The door lock was easily picked, and since the house alarm was tied into the same system as the fence, the whole network was now quite useless. He knew she had no idea of the danger that slipped silently into her haven.
He crept silently, cautiously across the living room, towards the staircase, to the upper rooms, to his destiny.
At the stairs, he hesitated.
Could it be? Yes, it was! The steps were inlaid with green marble. Green marble? Though he couldn’t be sure of the exact province, he was positive the marble was Manchurian in origin. And the handrails! Knotted oak! Hand carved and polished to a high sheen. Probably Italian.
Oh, the sweet smell of success. Success that rightfully should have been his. Success that would be his as soon as she, and the rest of them, were dealt with. Ohhh, the little ball of hate pulsed.
It will be so sweet, he thought. So sweet.
Even though the bedroom was dark, he could still make out the Southwestern decor from the door. There was a low-post rope bed dressed in a linsey-woolsey, a peg rail with several limp articles of clothing hanging from it, a hooked rug, probably from a pueblo somewhere in New Mexico, hanging on one wall. In one corner, there was a stack of textiles next to a red chimney cupboard that was probably full of more textiles. Folded across the foot of the bed was a lacy, velvet-edged comforter with a floral pattern. He recognized the work as being from Crispina Designs in Walla Walla.
Totally out of place with the whole mood of the room, he thought. She needs a sense of flow-through.
The bathroom door opened suddenly, and he dissolved back around the corner of the door. The light from the door cast a ghostly pale blue across the bedroom. He could hear water running.
Ah, excellent. While she relaxes in a soothing bath, I shall slip into her room like a shadow, find a place to hide, and prepare. Then, when she comes out, I will spring. Pounce on her just as the titmouse pounces upon the dung-beetle. Then, my revenge will be complete, and yet, only just beginning.
He wanted to laugh, to shout to the heavens that atonement was at hand, but he knew silence was his closest ally now.
Yes, he was quite deranged. Insane with the putrid, molten stuff that drove him to this foul deed, but he knew the only thing to stop his slow descent into madness was to destroy that which caused it. To incise the infected flesh from his soul.
He stole a peek around the corner just as she closed the bathroom door. Before the room once again fell to total darkness, he thought he caught a glimpse of a Country Tinware handmade willow lamp on her bedside table.
