Taker of Lives: A Gripping Crime Thriller

by Leslie Wolfe

  She went back inside the house and ran into the two SWAT officers escorting Althea Swain outside. The Taker walked with incredible dignity, her head held up high and her black hair now loose of hairpins and the wig net she’d worn underneath the head mask. She looked left and right, probably searching for the media and their camera flashes.

  “No way you’re getting any of that, bitch,” Tess mumbled between her teeth. “Put her in that,” she said to the officers, pointing at Fradella’s SUV, equipped with deep-tinted windows. “Let’s make sure the press doesn’t get a hold of her.”

  “How did you like my message, Agent Winnett?” the Taker asked, as she was being loaded into the back of the SUV.

  “What message?” Tess asked, frowning.

  “I sent you an email a couple of days ago. Check again.”

  Tess grunted but checked her phone. Her work inbox didn’t have an email from anyone who could’ve been the Taker of Lives.

  “No, there’s nothing,” she replied, turning to leave.

  “Not that inbox, Agent Winnett. Your personal one.”

  She felt her blood turn to ice. How did the Taker know her personal email address? She opened her Gmail and scrolled through a bunch of unread emails; over the past few days she hadn’t had the time to do anything of that sort.

  There it was, and the sender was clearly identified as Taker of Lives in bold lettering, marking the email as new, not previously opened.

  The message read, “How would you like your best-kept secrets shared with the world, my dear Tess? I can make all that happen for you. I can bring back memories that have been buried for twelve years. Would you like that?”

  Tess felt her blood turn to ice, then to fire, as rage took over. Somehow the Taker of Lives knew about her past, knew about the night she’d been assaulted. What could she really do, though? Was she a real danger? She was going away for a long time. She clenched her jaws, fighting the urge to shoot her where she sat. Instead, she shrugged and put the phone back in her pocket.

  “I have no clue what the hell you’re talking about. There’s no email from you,” she said, looking the Taker dead in the eyes. “Tell me, how did you get so close to all those people?”

  Althea stared at her for a while, trying to figure out if Tess was telling the truth. Then a crooked smile appeared at the corner of her mouth, curling her lips.

  “These bitches, they’re so used to having people revolve around them, they don’t pay attention anymore. They only think of themselves, and the world doesn’t see it, just like the world doesn’t see me. You didn’t see me either, did you, Agent Winnett?” She stopped talking for a moment, and a wave of sadness washed over her eyes. “Did you know I auditioned for Jane’s part in Twilight? They gave it to Dakota Fanning instead. I wasn’t a physicality fit, they said.”

  Tess shrugged again, not giving a damn about the Taker’s self-pity, but Althea misunderstood the gesture.

  “That meant they wanted an ethereal blonde to play the part, not a strong, tall brunette like me. Same thing happened when I auditioned for the lead role in Fifty Shades. Only for that part, my boobs were too small. They said I wasn’t sexy enough, not memorable enough. Can’t fight that, especially when everyone seems to think it.”

  Tess turned to her, starting to feel how tired she was now that the adrenaline of the hunt had washed away. “You mean to say, you did all this out of spite, out of envy over some movie part?”

  Althea shook her head and looked at Tess with disappointment. “You think it’s pathetic, don’t you? We live in a world of superficial fools who choose these empty shells of brainless puppets as their role models, while someone like me doesn’t stand a chance. Can you believe it?”

  “Yet you’d kill to have the same fools fawn over you?” Tess asked. “Wait a second… you did kill? Yes, you did, and you’re going away for good. You’ll see how famous you’ll be, all that fresh meat entering the prison system for a long, long time.” Then she turned to Fradella who’d climbed behind the wheel, ready to drive off. “I want to book her myself.”

  They drove off and rode in silence for a while. An elusive, half-baked thought gnawed at Tess’s weary mind; there was something she couldn’t place, a correlation she was missing.

  “What was the name of Christina Bartlett’s best friend?” Fradella asked. “The one who went to Europe to study?” He pointed at the notepad he kept between the seats. “It’s in there.”

  She flipped through the pages until she found the scribbled note. “Yeah, you nailed it! Althea Swain, there she is. Great memory.” She flipped a few more pages. “But that’s not where we met, Miss Abby Sharp, isn’t it? You sure like your initials, don’t you, Miss Ashely Summers? That’s who you were for Brianna.”

  “Now you understand the depths of my talent, Agent Winnett,” the woman replied, smiling, relaxed, as if she were interviewing for Entertainment Weekly.

  56

  Me: Amazing

  I am licensed to deceive and manipulate individuals and large groups of people; in other words, I have a degree in public relations with a minor in sociology. If there’s anything I understand well in this twisted, nonsensical world, it’s people. Their inmost fears, their primal urges, their unspoken secrets, so terrifying they won’t even admit them to themselves, in the quiet privacy of their own thoughts.

  It doesn’t matter who you are, what nationality, what age or gender. It doesn’t matter if you’re an honest blue-collar worker, a renowned scientist, or a rowdy teenager. I can push your buttons to make you feel what I want, when I want. I can make you tremble in fear or I can make you jump for joy, willing to accept the celebratory glass of roofied alcohol out of my hands, while wishing me all the best there is to wish for a nice girl like me.

  Christina was the easiest, but also the most difficult. She and I were good friends since high school, or so I liked to believe. It was she who showed me the most there was to learn about the injustice of this world. She demonstrated the value of certain genetics in opening doors and garnering opportunities. For everything I needed to work hard, she only had to accept. Wherever I had to beg, push, or claw my way, she only had to show up. I know what you’re going to say, but it wasn’t her father’s influence that made it happen. It was her long, blonde locks, her blue eyes, her pale skin, her C cups, and her thin waist.

  But not only that.

  I dyed my hair and wore contacts for a while, padded my bra, and starved myself into a size four. Nothing happened! Those doors I was hoping to pry open stubbornly refused to cede, remaining forever locked in front of me, no matter how I transformed myself.

  Curious, I chose my major with the hope of understanding what made people lay their worlds at the feet of someone like Christina.

  I got what I was looking for.

  I understood.

  I also happened not to like the answer, because there was nothing I could do to transform myself into what I wanted to become.

  Yeah, you guessed it.

  It’s sex.

  The answer to all the questions is that simple, three-letter word that opens doors and gilds the paths of certain people, male or female.

  To translate the concept into easier to understand words, it’s the measure in which people would like to have sex with a certain person. In other words, fuckability.

  I know you’ll hate the word, but you’ll grasp the concept.

  No amount of makeup, of hair dye, of skin bleach can improve that factor. It’s pheromone driven, and I don’t believe science fully understands it yet.

  Take Joan of Arc, for instance. She was always described as beautiful, but somehow managed to live among military men, even sleep next to them in barns and such, but never have intercourse with any of them. No one thought of touching her. Why? Simply put, she wasn’t desirable. Fuckability score: fail.

  Whether I like to admit it or not, I don’t pass either.

  I’d fallen in love with Santiago Flores, but he only saw Christina, even if she w
as engaged to another guy. I just didn’t exist.

  I cried endless nights with my face buried in my pillow, until I understood and accepted my reality.

  My face is bland, immemorable. By the time I was sixteen, I was already tired of having people call me by different names, always being the someone who “looks just like,” then insert a random name; I’ve heard it all.

  I am common-looking, almost maternal, despite my unsatisfactory body shape. I asked my sociology professor to explain it, and he stared at me for the longest time, evaluating, thinking. Then he said, “You’re best friend material, not girlfriend material. I can’t place why, but it’s there.”

  And best friend I have become. A serial one, you might add.

  All I’ve got going for me is brains; lots of it. I accepted it, grateful for having even that much.

  Then came the anguish, the revolt. My life can’t be lived in mediocrity and despair, because my smile isn’t loaded with innuendo, or my sweet-sixteen crush was a computer, not some movie star who never knew I existed. I deserve to make the big bucks, just as much as the likes of Christina, maybe even more. I have the brainpower to create, invent, innovate, and better the world we live in.

  Does it matter? Unfortunately, no.

  Why? Because no one really wants to fuck me or become more like me.

  There is no brain envy in the world we live in, only body-plus-pheromone envy, that’s it.

  Somewhere during the course of evolution, things took a terribly wrong turn. In the animal kingdom, only the smartest individuals gain access to mates and reproduce. They’re the fastest predators, the most skilled hunters of the wild, the most ingenuous den builders of the forest that get to continue their genetic material, and that goes for any species above the intellectual level of birds.

  We all know the peacock and his fancy tail feathers, his entertaining mating ritual, and yes, you’d have to have the brain of a bird to fall for that and take Mr. Peacock to bed, hence agreeing to have peachicks with no brains, just looks.

  Except if you’re human.

  Then you can choose to procreate based solely on good looks and desirability, with no regard for intellect. Women are still feeling the effects of latent DNA code that triggers desire when they see strong male arms with well-developed muscles; ages ago that was the sign of a good provider. Today? Not necessarily, yet women shiver when they see a cool set of abs to complement nice biceps, and a Beemer key on the man’s keychain. Yeah… for the same reason, women are sexually triggered by displays of wealth.

  It doesn’t matter that in today’s world, neither means anything worth transmitting in one’s genes. One could be a gym freak, the other an heir of some importance but little personal value who might choose not to provide after all.

  Do we care?

  No, because intellect doesn’t even come into play. No wonder the average intelligence quotient of the world’s population is declining.

  As soon as I understood that for myself, I wanted the entire world to see it, as clearly as I did.

  My immemorable, almost chameleonic face helped me gain access quickly to all those famous bitches who made it on my list.

  Yeah, I had a list.

  I didn’t build it solely on the basis of fame; no, I wanted exposure to the right kind of people, those who least understood what should be most important: intelligence. Those who could drive change, or at least accept it.

  Christina was the easiest for me; she and I went back a long time, and I had unrestricted access to her house. Even with her, to ensure the result I was aiming for, I “disappeared” to Europe for a while, then unexpectedly showed up on her doorstep one night with a bottle of expensive wine in my hand, not by any accident her favorite brand.

  “I’m getting married!” I announced, the moment the door swung open. Then I showed her a big diamond ring.

  Hugs and tears followed, and, yes, she drank from the bottle I’d brought, laced with Rohypnol via a needle through the cork. She didn’t pay attention to me enough to notice I wasn’t drinking, because, in case you forgot, I’m kind of immemorable, not that interesting to begin with. People forget I’m in the room, moments after I’ve entered it, even if no one else is there but me.

  With Estelle, I was pregnant; that was the announcement. For each one of them, I had a different story, one that resonated the best with their inmost desires. With Deanna, I was getting married, yet again; yeah, I recognize the lack of imagination here, but she was also engaged. It fit.

  With Haley, I’d just scored a major role in a movie, and I was going to work under Spielberg himself.

  With Marla, I struggled and almost failed. I couldn’t get close to her. Security guards everywhere, she was never alone in public, so my spilled Starbucks ruse didn’t work.

  Oh, I forgot to tell you about that.

  For each girl I needed a different, clean identity, in case the cops wanted to check me out. It wasn’t that hard; all these girls have a ton of vendors, of people they work with: publicists, event planners, assistants, communication specialists, florists, caterers, you name it. I’d look for someone in a line of work I could function in, someone with my initials preferably, the only anchor to the real me I wanted to preserve.

  The plan was simple, perfect, easy to execute and repeat indefinitely. First, identify someone who would fit, a young woman who looked like someone I could transform into; she was the identity I would borrow. Over time, I’d get my hands on some of her personal data and get me a driver’s license and a credit card in her name, just in case the cops ever wanted to see those. I’d never misuse that data; I never charged a single dollar on those credit cards. I’m not a thief.

  Then I’d approach the target with a simple ruse; run into them and spill their coffee at Starbucks or wherever they went for it. How did I know? Simple; I borrowed a cable installer’s truck every now and then and hung cameras in the trees across the street from their houses. Then I’d return the truck to the driveway it came from before the owner would wake up for yet another day, and watch patiently from my car, ready to follow my target the moment she left the house.

  Then, with that coffee spilled, I’d bury myself in apologies and insist until they’d let me buy another cup for them. A touch of heroin on the lid of that cup or the tip of that straw would create a powerful association in the target’s mind; they felt good in my presence, and they wanted more.

  During the ensuing small talk, I’d offer my services for free, to compensate for the stained clothing and the disruption in their day. I’d listen to them yap incessantly about countless, trivial things in their lives, fueling my strategy with each one of them and giving me all the elements to surprise them when the time came.

  Then I was in.

  In all fairness, with Haley, it didn’t go as planned, not at first. Her publicist had been with her for years, and I couldn’t get her to replace the guy. The dude had to have a serious slip and fall off a flight of stairs to open that door for me.

  With Marla, as I was saying, nothing worked. I couldn’t get close enough to her. But I was able to get close enough to her caterer and his assistant. I ran the Starbucks scheme on the caterer, then we went out for dinner and made friends; I was posing as a caterer myself, starting with smaller clients and offering my services to him, in the eventuality he needed more help for bigger venues. Then, what do you know? On the eve of the upcoming Adam Quinn party, his assistant became unavailable. She accidentally sat on a syringe needle at the local movie theater, and she was petrified with a fear of AIDS. A nice woman in the public told her how important it was to seek immediate medical attention.

  No, she doesn’t have AIDS, if that’s what you’re thinking. It was a perfectly sterile needle; I only gave her a brutal attack of acute fear, to keep her indisposed for a few days, until the test results came back. I really have nothing against hard-working women.

  I don’t regret anything I’ve done; they all deserved to die, they all deserved to be exposed for the frau
ds they were. If there’s anything I regret, it is something I didn’t do.

  This Agent Winnett has skeletons in her closet I would’ve liked to unearth. I’ve seen the missed heartbeat in her carotid when she read my email; there’s pain buried in there, and I will dig it up somehow and savor its exquisite taste to the last bit.

  That’s a promise.

  She’s becoming much too famous for me to tolerate. Did you see all those people taking orders from her? When the media arrived, she was immediately surrounded, but all she did was glare at them and yell, “no comment.”

  Stupid bitch.

  57

  Dinner and A Movie

  “So, you couldn’t take their fame, could you?” Tess asked, turning in her seat and looking at the Taker, who sat calmly as if being driven to a club. “You couldn’t deal with the fact that they got all the attention, while you got nothing. You only got to watch. I remember how you sat there on that couch, holding poor Estelle in your arms and feeding off her pain like a parasite, drinking in every teardrop, every sob. How good that must’ve felt, didn’t it?”

  “Not nearly as good as it should have,” she replied calmly.

  “Okay, I feel for you. I believe I understand you now, and I’ll help you get the attention you deserve.”

  Tess smiled when she saw Fradella’s surprised glance and winked at him discreetly.

  “Detective,” Tess asked, “what’s the prison with the worst inmate-assault statistics, do you know?”

  He didn’t get a chance to reply. Althea threw herself against the partition between the front and back seats, slamming her shoulder into the steel mesh. “You can’t do this, bitch!”

  Tess faced her with a serene smile. “Just watch me.”

  That had the effect of a bucket of cold water poured on the detainee’s head. She clammed up and withdrew in the corner of the back seat as far away from Tess as possible.