Pure Hate
By
Wrath James White
PUBLISHED BY
Dullahan Press
an imprint of Dark Quest, LLC
Howell, New Jersey 07731
www.darkquestbooks.com
Copyright © 2011 by Wrath James White
ISBN (trade paper): 978-1-937051-21-1
All rights reserved. No part of the contents of this book may be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the
publisher.
All persons, places, and events in this book are fictitious and any
resemblance to actual persons, places, or events is purely coincidental.
Cover Art: Candice JoyWright
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Prologue
PART I | Conflict | I.
II.
III.
IV.
V.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
IX.
X.
XI.
XII.
XIII. | Titus barely slept all night. His mind was wrapped around the case like a boa constrictor, but he couldn’t digest it, couldn’t make sense of it. A man the entire city had been hunting for years had stepped out of the night, slaughtered a family, practically autographed the crime scene, and vanished back into the night. They should have had him in custody an hour after they received the 911 call, but somehow he had eluded them. | He had been all over the Cozen’s house inspecting every bit of evidence as fast as the crime scene techs gathered it. | He followed the medical examiner’s van to the city morgue and sat through the preliminary autopsy. Afterwards, he went back to the precinct and pulled out all the files on the three murder investigations, covering twenty-seven separate homicides. Malcolm Davis had been a busy boy. So far, they had been unable to turn up an address on the suspect, but they had his mother, grandmother, sister, and all three of his aunts under surveillance. At five a.m., Detective Baltimore finally crawled into bed, confident that when he awoke it would be to a phone call telling him they had located their suspect.
XIV.
XV.
XVI.
XVII.
XVII.
XVIII.
XIX.
XX.
XXI.
XXII.
XXIII.
XXIV.
XXV.
XXVI.
XXVII.
XXVIII.
XXIX.
PART II
XXX.
XXXI.
XXXII.
XXXIII.
XXXIV.
XXXV.
XXXVI.
XXXVII.
XXXVIII.
XXXIX.
XL.
XLI.
XLII.
XLIII.
XLIV.
XLV.
XLVI.
XLVII.
PART III | Denouement | XLVIII.
XLIX.
L.
LI.
LII.
LIII.
LIV.
LV.
LVI.
LVII.
LVIII.
LIX.
LX.
Where it all began . . . back to the school . . . the High School of Creative and Performing Arts.
LXII.
LXIII.
LXIV.
LXV.
LXVI.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A very special thanks to Bob Strauss who proofread the original manuscript nearly ten years ago. Thanks to Robert Masterson for his hard work on proofreading this final version and for all his comments and insights.
Thanks also to my lovely wife, Christie for her unwavering love and support. And my unending thanks and gratitude to all my faithful readership. I couldn't (and probably wouldn't) do any of this without you.
Prologue
Something wasn’t right. Malcolm rang the doorbell, again. No answer. He could see furtive movements in the upstairs window, shadowy silhouettes darting around behind the curtains in Natasha’s room. She was home. She was not alone. And she was not answering the door. A ricochet began in Malcolm’s brain, a jumble of jealous angry thoughts like a ballistic projectile bouncing around his skull, gaining momentum, tearing his mind apart.
She’s cheating on me. She’s cheating on me! That lying, whoring bitch is cheating on ME!
The thoughts bounced around his mind at increasing velocity. Malcolm hated it when this happened, this loss of control. Even if he had to kill someone tonight, he wanted his head clear when he did it. If he lost his head he’d be sloppy and get caught. He’d never killed anyone before, and if tonight was the night when he crossed that line, he needed to be calm and rational. But he didn’t know how to do that. He didn’t know how he could possibly stay calm with his girlfriend up there dirtying the sheets with some other stud.
“I knew this bitch would betray me,” he whispered, shaking his head and breathing heavily, his pulse speeding up, muscles tensing.
All his friends had told him not to date outside his race.
Stay with your own, Malcolm. You ain’t got no business messin’ around with those white bitches. They ain’t nothin’ but a bunch of triflin’ whores and you ain’t shit to them but a cheap thrill.
He’d ignored them all because Natasha was different. She loved him. She had told him so.
That lying bitch! That lying bitch! THAT LYING, FUCKING BITCH!
Malcolm began grinding his teeth as he struggled to control his rage. He knew that if he allowed these thoughts out of his head, gave voice to them, let them take him over, he would smash through the door and kill everyone inside. He knew enough about himself to know that mercy was not part of his makeup. Holding the thoughts inside made his entire body shake. The veins in his neck and forehead bulged. His teeth gnashed. His eyes dodged back and forth in their sockets as his mind worked overtime, trying to steady itself. His hands clenched into fists so tight the skin on his knuckles threatened to rip. A scream, a roar, was trapped in his gut and it churned there, indigestible.
A giggle came from somewhere in the house and then . . . Malcolm charged. The compressed wood particleboard that comprised the front door became wood particles again as Malcolm’s entire body slammed into it—through it. The peephole flew across the room and shattered the mirror over the mantelpiece. Malcolm stood in the living room, wood chips scattered at his feet.
The house was dark and silent except for a lone light coming from Natasha’s bedroom and the heavy, panting breath of a very large and angry teenager. Malcolm was halfway up the stairs when he heard her window open and footsteps on the roof. Whoever was in Natasha’s room was trying to escape.
That fuckin’ coward!
Malcolm ran back down the stairs and out into the yard. When he looked up at the figures silhouetted by the moon and crawling out of Natasha’s window, his hand tightened around his ten-dollar swap-meet switchblade with the leopard on the handle. He could already imagine their blood staining the blade. He reached up and grabbed the man from where he dangled off the gutter, and pulled him down to slam hard on the lawn. Then Malcom stopped. He looked up at Natasha, frozen on the roof, and then down at his best friend, Reed, struggling to sit up in the wet grass like a dying cockroach trying to right itself on a waxed floor.
“What the fuck is going on!”
Malcolm was confused but still angry, still murderously angry. He could hear the voices of his friends in his head, the ones who had tried to warn him.
You can’t trust none of them muthafuckas. That white boy you kick it with spends more time with your
girl than you do. Fuck do you think they doin’ when you ain’t around?
But Malcolm had ignored all the warnings.
“Nothing man. We were just hanging out. Just talking.” Reed stayed on his back, obviously figuring it was safer down there than up where his six-foot-five-inch homicidal best friend raged.
“In her fucking bedroom!”
The ricochet had begun again, rebounding off his skull with increasing force. Malcolm could feel his mind rattling itself apart. His eyes searched Reed’s, almost hoping the kid could provide some rational answer, something that would calm the maelstrom in Malcolm’s head.
“Malcolm, we weren’t doing anything! Don’t hurt him!” Natasha screamed as she scrambled down from the roof.
“You don’t answer the door? You sneak out the fuckin’ window?”
The flaming projectile whizzed through his mind and his entire body shook.
My best friend and my girlfriend.
It wouldn’t stop. It flew faster and faster through his brain.
My best friend and my girlfriend. My best friend and my girl friend. My best friend and MY FUCKING GIRLFRIEND! That lying bitch is cheating on me! That sonuvabitch fucked my girl!
Malcolm was losing it again.
“Man, I swear nothing happened.”
Malcolm held the knife in a white-knuckled grip, trying to decide who to use it on, Reed, Natasha, or himself and in what order.
“Reed, you’d better get the fuck out of here. Because I think I’m going to kill you.”
His voice was calm and even. He almost didn’t sound angry at all except for his words and the fact that he was holding six inches of deadly sharp steel.
“Look man, it ain’t what you think . . .”
“GO!” He lashed out with the knife, slashing at Reed’s throat. Reed jerked away as the blade whispered through the air, nicked his throat and drew blood. His eyes widened as a trickle of red dripped down and stained the collar of his t-shirt. Malcolm sneered as Reed quickly wiped away the blood, stared at the smear of red on his palm, then took off running across the lawn.
“Fuckin’ coward!”
Malcolm stood in front of the house, a huge shadow raging beneath the full moon. He turned toward Natasha. She looked terrified.
“Baby, come inside. It’s okay. I swear we were just talking.” She was trying hard to sound normal, but she was afraid, and Malcolm knew it and that just made him angrier. She had tried to sneak off with Reed. She had run in fear from him. He wanted to show her exactly what there was to be afraid of.
Malcolm allowed himself to be led back into the house. Natasha sat down on the old mohair couch as he walked past her into the kitchen. He lifted up the stovetop on the oven and blew out the pilot lights then he turned up the gas.
“Baby? W-what are you doing? Malcolm?”
“Remember when you said you wanted to die with me? Remember when you said you would die for me? I believed you then. I really believed you meant it. But now I’m not so sure.”
“Baby, you know I’d die for you.”
“Really?” He eyed Natasha suspiciously, “Then let’s do it.”
His voice held no warmth or emotion. Natasha searched his eyes and could find none of the love that usually burned there for her. Shadows slithered across his dark retinas as if someone had flipped a switch and turned off all the light inside of him.
Malcolm sat down at the kitchen table. The rotten egg stink of natural gas began to fill the room. Natasha’s gaze darted around the kitchen in a panic. She looked back at Malcolm and tears began to well up and cascade down her cheeks.
“Oh, Malcolm, I’m not ready to die!”
“Yeah? Well I am, and you said you would die with me. Have you changed your mind? Maybe Reed has changed your mind?”
“Malcolm!”
“Is it because he’s the same color as you? Got tired of fucking a nigger? Started getting homesick for your own kind? Tell me, did you fuck him?”
“Malcolm!”
“Did you? Did you?”
“Pleaaase!”
“Just answer the fucking question! Did-you-fuck-him?”
“Malcolm the gas! We’re going to suffocate!”
“Did you?”
“Yes, damn it! Yes, we did! I did! But so did your last girlfriend, Renee’. Last year when she was all buddy-buddy with Reed while you were at work. She was fucking him! You thought she was so damned perfect. I could never measure up to Renee’, right? Well she fucked him, too, and it’s your fault! You’re mean, Malcolm. You’re cold. You never let anyone close to you. You smothered Renee’ by being so jealous and controlling and then you tried to break me down. You made me feel like shit for not being Renee’. I’m not Renee’, Malcolm. I’m me. I just wanted you to love me. ”
Malcolm’s face twisted into a scowl.
“What the fuck did you say?”
“Renee . . . she cheated on you too, Malcolm.”
All the rage drained out of him. His entire body deflated as if his anger had been the only thing filling his skin. He wilted down into the recliner across from Natasha.
Renee’ had been the first woman he’d ever loved. The only reason he hadn’t checked out on life. She had shown him that life could be beautiful and not just the foul and murky sty filled with sewer rats, cockroaches, and dilapidated row homes that he experienced every day. That life could be more than broken beer bottles, crack vials, and hypodermic needles. More than the hopeless drug addicts, the single welfare mothers, the teenaged dealers, the fights, and shootouts that filled his nights and days. She had shown him that life could be more than poverty, madness, violence, and hunger, that there could be hope and joy. She had shown him that not everyone and everything in life was out to hurt him.
She lied!
Malcolm felt the most profound misery he’d ever known. He’d just lost everything. This world was no longer a place he wanted to live in. Reed, his best friend, had fucking betrayed him! The only man he’d let get close to him since his father. The only man he’d ever trusted. The only person he’d ever really thought came close to being his equal, had betrayed him with the only two women he’d ever really loved! They were all lost to him now.
Malcolm’s mind filled with fantasies of death, torture, and dismemberment. He wanted them all to suffer. He wanted them to feel the pain he felt. But what he felt was too vast. It seemed impossible. No matter what he did, they’d never hurt as much as he did now. He just wanted to be rid of it all.
He reached across the cracked and yellowing Formica kitchen table and pulled out a book of matches. He pulled one matchstick from the pack . . .
“Malcolm! Noooooo!”
. . . and lit it.
PART I
Conflict
I.
Fifteen Years later . . .
Paul was silent as he sat in the car next to the tremendous black man—the man he loved. He knew the violence Malcolm was capable of when he was in these moods, but his fear of Malcolm only fueled Paul’s passion for him. Malcolm was more than a man to Paul. He was like a primal, savage, force of nature—a tidal wave or an earthquake imprisoned in human flesh.
Paul knew Malcolm didn’t love him. He knew the big, fearsome man only kept him around because Paul reminded him of Reed. Malcolm had even forced him to undergo cosmetic surgery to make him look exactly like his old high school friend. He knew that Malcolm wasn’t really gay. To Malcolm, sex was just another way to humiliate and conquer Paul, to punish him for not being Reed.
Malcolm often beat him, whipped him, strangled him until Paul passed out, brutally sodomized him while hurling threats and insults, cut, burned, and degraded him. Paul just kept coming back for more. He was a glutton for pain and humiliation. For him it was better than sex or love.
Paul had other lovers with whom he had experimented with S&M and B&D, but it had always lacked something. With Malcolm he discovered what that something was—realism. He knew in his heart that Malcolm truly wanted to hurt him,
and that at any moment he just might kill him. That was the biggest turn-on of all, and after they killed Reed, he’d have Malcolm all to himself.
Paul sat quietly beside Malcolm, watching as his mood went from anger to depression. He had witnessed Malcolm’s mood swings before and knew their sequence. Anger gave way to depression, followed by indifference, which then turned to a wicked playfulness that proceeded violence. A shudder of fear and an almost sexual excitement shivered up Paul’s spine as Malcolm began to smile.
II.
Malcolm was in a frenzy as he read through Reed’s newest novel. He ripped each page out as he finished it, wishing it were Reed’s living flesh. He was growling low in his stomach and grinding his teeth.
“That sonuvabitch!”
Malcolm grabbed the novel between his teeth and ripped it in half, tossing the remains of his kill in the backseat where the pages fluttered to the floor like the feathers of a gull chopped down in mid-flight.
Malcolm started the engine and pulled away from the curb, startling a small flock of pigeons—flying rats—as he roared into the street, still growling, the bloodlust boiling in him like physical hunger. The air around him was thick, lush with his hatred. It weighed every movement with deadly purpose. Rage filled his shadow and gave it substance. Someone was about to catch a bad one . . . a very, very bad one.
The block-long, battleship gray ’72 Impala purred like a lion with a belly full of antelope as it rounded the corner. For Malcolm, the menacing rumble was soothing. The power of the huge V-8 engine was comforting. It made him feel invincible. The sawed-off, Mossberg, pistol-grip pump shotgun that hung in its handmade holster under his sports jacket, his massive, heavily muscled, hormone enhanced physique, and his irresistible homicidal rage completed the feeling of invincibility. He was a monster. And he blamed Reed for it.
Fifteen years ago, it had seemed impossible to him that Reed could’ve ever betrayed him. Even when he knew the truth it had seemed unreal to him.
Didn’t Reed know how much he loved him? Didn’t Reed know what he would do to him? What he was capable of?
He would know after tonight. He would know and regret it.
Pure Hate Page 1