Chapter 8
Once Adam arrived at home, he greeted his mother then climbed the stairs to his bedroom, foregoing the usual stop by the refrigerator to grab a snack. He sat down in front of his laptop and opened his email. The question both Kyle and Vance asked popped into his head…why was he writing a paper about the serial killer? He couldn’t find a rational reason for it. Out of all the people to write about, why that guy? A few unimportant email messages popped up so he let them be. Next, found the email Kyle sent with the list of websites about Kinkaid. It didn’t take him long to figure out this guy was absolutely crazy, schizo, totally psychotic. Adam began to understand their questions now. Writing a paper about Kinkaid would probably make him seem like he was just as crazy, and he began to rethink his decision about the subject.
He looked out his bedroom window, searching for someone else to write about. He smirked as he realized the enormity of this task…the list of possible people was endless. He leaned back in his chair and stared at the laptop’s screen. After a few minutes, he gave up. Nobody of any importance to him came to mind. He began reading the details of one of Kinkaid’s vicious murders while he kept thinking. It was gruesome and the details were very graphic. Soon Adam began snickering. He continued reading and the snickers turned into giggles, then grew into full-blown laughter. Kinkaid re-emerged and was amused with what he read, admiring the mastery of his work. He was going to write a paper, and why not? This was his chance to brag about himself.
Once again, Kinkaid tasted freedom.
Without any idea of how long he would be active, he devised a plan that would be as smooth and efficient as last nights. Another random kill wasn’t going to make him happy, not this night. He needed to find someone on that list of names Kyle gave him. Someone directly involved with his execution. He reviewed the email, searching for the name of a juror. Any of them were viable victims since his verdict was a unanimous decision. Whoever he chose had to live nearby, within bike riding distance. This kill needed to be personal and send a message throughout the town that no one is safe. One name stood out, juror five, Thomas Abbott, and he lived only a few blocks away. Kinkaid was familiar with the daily cycle of Southern Pines. Without any large industries, most people were home by six o’clock in the evening. Patience was the name of the game now. All he had to do is bide his time. It would be a couple more hours before he could act on his plan. In the meantime, he decided to watch a little television for a while then go and interact with Adam’s mother, making up some plausible excuse to leave for the evening.
His television was on, but he had no interest in the current programming. His mind was preoccupied with planning Thomas Abbott’s murder. It should be intimate, causing maximum damage with a minimal blood loss. Moving about with streets with bloody clothing during the day was a definite no-no. It would have to be a surgical attack so the victim had a chance to reflect on what he’d done as he lay dying. The perfect tool would be a long Phillips screwdriver…easily concealable, lightweight, and sharp. It wouldn’t be the masterpiece he hoped for, but it would send a clear message that he was back. Time ticked away, and his twisted mind offered up numerous scenarios of how he should proceed, but he knew things could change swiftly as events unfolded during his attack. Nevertheless, he was morbidly excited about this evening.
He had enough time to develop an ingenious reason for leaving home that even had some elements of truth in it. By taking on Adam’s mannerisms, which was quite easy since he occupied Adam’s body, he told his mother that he needed to write a paper on an individual for a class, and he needed time to think about who he would like to choose. The person couldn’t be famous and they should be local. To help him think, he wanted to ride his bike around the town for a while, looking at some of the businesses and offices throughout the area to find an appropriate subject. His mother took the bait without any questions. Adam’s mom was a pushover whenever it came to schoolwork. After giving her a light peck on the cheek, he plucked a couple of cookies from the cookie jar sitting on the counter and headed for the garage, through the side door, to retrieve his bicycle. While in the garage, he quietly rummaged through Adam’s father’s toolbox and pulled a long stemmed Phillips screwdriver from underneath the other tools, stuffing it handle-side down in his back pocket. He opened the garage door, moved his bike out, then closed it. He was off on his new mission of revenge.
The sun sat in the western sky in the early evening as he pedaled with conviction towards his destination. Large tufts of clouds provided some relief from the sun’s rays, but that didn’t matter to him, not right now. He hoped this Thomas Abbott guy would be at home by the time he reached his house. If Abbott decided to take any detours to pick up fast food or hangout with co-workers for happy hour, his plans would be foiled. His personal preference is to have this victim absolutely sober so he could feel the presence of the screwdriver puncturing his organs, releasing their toxic fluids within his stomach cavity. Just that single thought sent waves of pleasure throughout Kinkaid’s body causing him to pedal even faster. His anticipation for this kill was epic.
Heavy traffic zipped along Catherine Avenue forcing him to stick to the sidewalks and cross the streets at intersections to protect himself. Keeping his teenage masquerade viable was imperative, and it seemed to be working. Cars willingly yielded the right of way as he closed in on his destination.
Jameson Street, where Mr. Abbott lived, was very quiet like the street the three boys lived on. The first thing Kinkaid noticed as he turned down Jameson Street was the presence of cars in the driveways. It could mean many people were at home, behind closed doors. No one was outside, but he was aware of the living room picture windows that faced the street. He could still be spotted by an unsuspecting homeowner or their siblings, but he didn’t let that stop him.
He pedaled down the sidewalk glancing around at the houses as though he’d never been down that street before, but in reality, he was searching for an address…Mr. Abbott’s address. As he coasted further down the street, the addresses counted down until he saw 2501. That was it, the home of juror five. It was a nice home…an off-white house with blue shutters, awnings, and trim. Tan curtains were visible through the large picture window in front of the house. The lawn looked freshly cut and very neat. Spanning the front of the house was a series of well-trimmed bushes that sat no higher than the bottom of the picture window. A narrow, concrete walkway extended from the side of the driveway all the way to a short red-brick staircase. Topping the three stairs was a concrete slab that sat at the front door. This is a house that would capture the imagination of many potential homebuyers if it were photographed and advertised on Zillow.com.
It was hard for him to tell if anyone was home. The driveway was empty and no lights were visible from outside, but there was plenty of daylight left. Instead of stopping immediately and confronting Mr. Abbott, he chose to ride around the block a couple of times, stopping on occasion to check his bicycle chain as if he was having some issues with it. That should throw any nosey neighbors off of him.
As he began his third circuit around the neighborhood, the street remained empty of traffic and people. On this trip, he headed right to Mr. Abbott’s house. He reached behind him and felt the lump from the screwdriver handle. Right before he got to Mr. Abbott’s house, he stopped and inspected his chain once more. Then walked his bike up Mr. Abbott’s driveway, engaged the kickstand, and drew the screwdriver from his back pocket holding it in his right hand.
He strolled up to Mr. Abbott’s door and rang the doorbell. He still wasn’t sure if this guy was home, but he couldn’t control is growing blood thirst. He found trying to look innocent was quite a challenge, but he managed to do it. He was ready to pounce, but no one answered. He rang the doorbell again. His face lost its innocence, and he became aware of it so he forced a smile to hide his anxiousness. Then the doorknob began to turn. His heart raced. The main door opened followed by the screen door. The man inside said,
“Hello.
Can I help you?”
While he occupied Adam’s body, Kinkaid stood five feet, three inches tall, and in front of him stood a relatively short man, about the same height as himself. Mr. Abbott’s rotund physique was indicative of his lack of exercise, which would make for an easy kill. He sported a sloppy comb over that failed to hide his bald spot, however he didn’t look like a bad guy. In fact, he seemed very pleasant and willing to help.
“Hi, the chain on my bike keeps slipping off. Do you have a pair of vice grips or pliers I can use to tighten my back wheel? Oh, is it okay if I have a small drink of water too? It’s really hot out here.”
“Yes to both of your questions. Come on in and I’ll get you some water.”
“Thank you so much, sir.”
Mr. Abbott held the screen door open for Kinkaid. He stepped inside and turned to face Mr. Abbott. With one smooth motion, he stuck the elongated screwdriver beneath the man’s sternum, aiming for his heart. Mr. Abbott gasped and his eyes widened, and a look of total confusion encompassed his face. Kinkaid forced him back into the house, still applying upward pressure on the screwdriver, then he let out a sinister howl. Mr. Abbott pushed himself away and clutched his chest as he bent forward. Kinkaid circled around him and launched the screwdriver into Mr. Abbott’s upper back, puncturing his left lung. His victim stumbled forward. Kinkaid removed the screwdriver and with a side swipe, slammed it into the fleshy part of Mr. Abbott’s right side just below the rib cage. Then he cranked the handle in a circular motion like a handle on a jack-in-the-box, trying to rip his victim’s right kidney apart. Blood spewed from Mr. Abbott’s mouth as he fell to the ground. Juror five was dying and Kinkaid was in heaven. He backed away to admire his masterpiece…it was beautiful.
He paused for a few seconds to check his clothes for blood stains. He was clean. Most of it was soaked up by Mr. Abbott’s shirt. He watched Mr. Abbott struggle and gag as he tried catching his breath. Kinkaid let out his sinister laugh once again and continued laughing until his victim was on the verge of death. He stepped forward, being very careful of the pooling blood, rolled his victim over, straddled him, and got right in Mr. Abbott’s face,
“In case you’re wondering who I am, and why this is happening, I’m Brian Kinkaid! Remember me you fucking asshole? You and your friends on that jury sentenced me to death. I told you I was gonna come back, and here I am. You didn’t fucking think I’d come back did you? Out of sight, out of mind? Dumb ass! I told you I'd kill you. Does it hurt, asshole? Does it? Welcome to my fucking world, you fuck! Here, take this with you!”
As a final gesture of his hatred, he reared his hand back, grasping the screwdriver with a firm grip, and shoved it deep inside Mr. Abbott’s gaping mouth, puncturing the back of his throat. Blood sprayed upward like a small fountain forcing Kinkaid to rear back. His hand became stained with blood, but he wasn’t worried. He’d wash it off after he went home. He rose and watched with a smug smile as Mr. Abbott’s life passed out of his body. He was satisfied. He wiped the bloody screwdriver on the man’s pants then turned to leave. He was careful not to touch anything as he left the house, making sure to back out through the screen door so he wouldn’t touch the handle.
He returned to his bicycle in the same casual manner he arrived. As he coasted slowly down the driveway, he turned and waved at the house as if saying good-bye to an old friend. In fact, he was so confident of his masquerade that he rode around the block one more time, appearing just as carefree, then headed for home.
Through Brian's Eyes Page 14