Chapter Three
Looking up from behind his glass desk, Tyler accepted the workshop confirmation list from his assistant. Simone’s long crimson nails had dug into the paper so hard they’d punctured its whiteness, leaving a blood red trail of nail polish, as if marking her territory.
She stood there like a dog waiting for a treat.
“It’s past eight. Go on home,” he said. “You don’t need to stay.”
Stifling a sigh, he turned from the curvaceous brunette and pretended to pull something off the credenza in back of him. She and her ilk didn’t matter. As a diversion, he enjoyed hiring beautiful women as assistants, but he never allowed it to become personal. From the beginning he’d warned Simone of the rules, but like the other sycophants, she’d chosen to ignore him. Instead of sex alone, she wanted all of him. That made her yet another in the long line of willing slaves who sought to change the immutable. The doors to his soul remained barred. No one could get in, not even himself.
She stood in the same spot when he looked up.
“Go on home,” he said again, trying not to sound irritated. At sight of her disappointed moue, guilt flickered inside him. Not for the first time, he wished he didn’t have something missing. What kept him from getting close to anyone?
She turned without a word. Her heels clicked on the hardwood floor. The slam of the penthouse door punctuated her displeasure. Would she return? Did he care?
His thoughts immediately fixed on the list. He tried to quell it, but a tiny spark of hope grew within him.
He pictured Julie as he’d last seen her: shoulder length golden hair, fiery emerald eyes, soft shoulders held back, a dichotomy of vulnerability and invincibility. A man might conquer her physically, but, to win her heart, he’d have to fall to his knees. She spelled danger and much more.
He’d floundered attempting to answer her questions, revealing more of himself than he’d intended. After the soul-baring process had begun, he couldn’t control it. With each audience query, he’d stripped off more layers, carelessly exposing himself for her inspection.
While addressing the assembly, his mind had grappled with the question of how to prevent her from escaping. The net must be loose enough to draw her in, yet tight enough to catch her. She liked to write. Where better than a workshop?
Had she changed her mind? His chest tightened as he glanced down at the list of attendees he’d given to his assistant to confirm.
Was the intrepid one’s name still there?
Ah, yes, there it was. With a triumphant whoosh, he released his breath. Gripping the paper, he smiled and rose. Possibilities, like fireflies, flitted through his mind. Maybe she’d be the one. Maybe she could accomplish what no woman had before. So much could happen if only - - but what if it didn’t? He didn’t dare get his hopes up. He’d been disappointed too often.
“They all want a piece of me. She’s just like the rest,” he muttered.
With controlled deliberation, he placed the list in the top drawer of his desk. Pretending it didn’t exist, he stepped into the adjoining kitchen and brewed a pot of coffee. Mug in hand, he sat back down to his computer.
His head pounded, but he relegated the pain to the background. It was time to write. Eager to rake in more cash, his publisher had again set a close deadline.
He opened his mind to his latest work, Drowning in Your Love.
* * *
The air was warm, even at midnight. The park, densely lined with trees and shrubs, had at one time been his haven. He’d spent countless hours enjoying its serenity and beauty until they’d violated his territory.
Frowning, he passed the lapping waters of the lagoon and the swaying willow grove, until he reached the cover of the densely flowering forsythias.
At the sound of footsteps, he crouched and watched through the parted branch at the bottom of the bush. The two approached from different directions, first the man from the right, then the woman from the left.
He knew what would happen next. He fought the urge to jump out and plead, “Be strong, for God’s sake. Don’t do it.”
His legs trembled, but he remained still. If only she’d leave, then nothing bad would happen.
Paying no heed to his silent wish, the woman fastened her eyes on the man’s features, and said, “I love you.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck. Her wedding ring twinkled in the lamplight as they descended to the grass.
Every moan from the woman’s lips carried to the man behind the bushes. Heat coursed from his neck to his face. His treacherous member hardened. The torture continued. The lamplight’s glow revealed the slow unbuttoning of the woman’s sweater, followed by the lifting of the skirt and the shameless act that followed. What about her family? If they only knew.
The act went on for an eternity as, with legs grown numb, he crouched and waited in the undergrowth.
Finally they finished, stumbled upright and rearranged their clothing. A victim of passion, the man returned a last searing kiss before he vanished down the path. The woman stood alone, smiling, the only sound the crickets.
In back of the bush, a cramp shot up the man’s calf. He had to move. If only she would do something, so the noise wouldn’t carry. Instead, she stood there with that insipid grin on her face.
He was pitching forward. Wincing, he shifted his weight. A twig snapped. She turned. He froze, his legs enduring the prick of a thousand small needles. She squinted, then shrugged and headed in the opposite direction away from her vanished lover.
Stifling a grunt of pain, the watcher eased up partway and hobbled, keeping his cover behind the bushes. His leg returned to normal, just as she reached the next park lamp. Its fluorescent glow lit her features, revealing a mouth curved upward in satisfaction.
“I’ll wipe that smile off your face,” he muttered, keeping pace with her.
A glance at his quarry revealed her top button lay open, exposing a creamy expanse of cleavage. His stomach roiled in anger and protest, yet his swollen member almost burst.
“Why am I so weak? She means nothing to me,” his mind said, yet his body told him otherwise.
He must stop the torture. There was only one way to do that. He inched closer, yet she was still unaware. He drew so near he could almost taste her.
The time of reckoning had come. He donned his gloves and slid the silk scarf from his pocket even as he kept pace with her from behind.
Reaching out, he pinched her waist. She turned, still smiling, probably expecting to see her lover.
With the element of surprise in his favor, he whipped the scarf around her neck, entangling her golden hair in its folds.
She parted her lips to scream, but instead gasped. He tightened the hold, pulling her close. A mixture of cheap perfume and sexual body odor invaded his nostrils and lungs, making him gag.
Despite his revulsion, he stepped closer and yanked harder. Her surprised look changed to terror, but it wouldn’t stop him. She deserved this.
The smell of fear hit him full force, upsetting his stomach’s balance, forcing the bile up his throat. Ignoring the burning sensation, he swallowed.
Sensing his weakness, she swung at him with her hand. He caught it, forced her off balance and threw her to the ground. She rolled over and kicked his shin.
Nausea forgotten, he clutched his leg. Rolling on the grass, he groped for the scarf. She twisted then landed a knee to his crotch, making him see stars.
She was up. He could barely move, but he must stop her. Groping, he latched onto her ankle and twisted. She lost her balance and landed beside him. He reached for the scarf on her neck. She knocked him away with her elbow.
Through the tangle of arms and legs, he again sought the scarf. Feeling its smooth texture, he held tight, grabbed the other end and pushed each end together.
He increased the pressure. She fought, bucking and squirming, but she proved no match for his superior strength. Her efforts grew weak, then stopped altogether as she sagged in his arms. Her eyes bulged. Her l
ips turned purple.
Satisfaction filled him. He’d done it. It felt good knowing there was one less harlot left to lead a good man from his wife.
Now for the worst part. Grasping his burden under the arms, he dragged it as fast as he could. The woman’s shoes scraped against the gravel, beating a dirge. He gritted his teeth.
Like a slow motion video character, he inched along. The process seemed endless. He prided himself on being in shape, yet perspiration streamed under his arms, across his forehead, around his crotch. His eyes smarted, but he dare not release his grip to wipe them. Balancing a dead weight was not easy. And the morbid stench was nauseating. He knew that smell, but from where? A jarring memory flitted across his consciousness and faded. With each step, the odor grew stronger, playing havoc with his weak stomach. If only he could drop his burden and dash away, but that was out of the question. He had a mission to fulfill.
A rustling sound from the right froze him. Smell forgotten, he dropped the woman and threw himself into the opposite bushes. His eyes and ears strained. Droplets trickled down his back. The evidence of his guilt lay but six feet away, in plain view of any passersby. If he were caught, he’d fry.
Two raccoons darted onto the path, then disappeared behind a maple. Was that what he’d heard? Suppose it had been something else? He waited to make sure.
The silence lengthened. Every minute seemed an hour. He better get on with it if he expected to finish the job before daylight.
Cautiously he rose and glanced around. Taking a deep breath, he stepped back onto the path and reached for his burden. The ordeal continued.
Ahead, a squirrel jumped from a bush. This time, the man ignored the commotion and continued hauling the body. Heading for the lagoon, he passed the wisterias, the wild flowers, the pine trees and the elms.
At the landing, he inched downward until near the water’s edge. With a sigh of relief, he released his burden down the bank. It hit with a splash.
Fascinated, he watched the bubbles rise as if trying to cleanse the slut of her guilt. That would never happen. Her sins were too enormous. Water could never restore her soul.
“No man will drown in your love again,” he said, and with a grim smile he turned from the water.
* * *
Tyler blinked. God, he was tired. The acid in his stomach rose, making him double over. That damn ulcer again.
His abdominal problems had become so pronounced that he’d even included a weak stomach in his current villain’s makeup. Long ago, he’d given up trying to keep his health and idiosyncrasies out of the manuscripts. Somehow they made it in anyway, as if they belonged there. None of that mattered right now. He only wanted to feel better. Tyler grabbed the antacid bottle and downed a handful of pills.
Forever striving to be unique and aiming to be the best, he gave more and more of himself to each manuscript. He had to. He lived for his books.
What he most dreaded and craved had happened again. He’d crossed the bridge between himself and the character and had entered the flow. The transition was brutal, yet essential. The only way he could write was to follow it all to its conclusion. This latest excursion had been a dilly.
The end of the novel lay out of reach, waiting to make his efforts worthwhile.
He reached for the mug, raised it to his lips and swallowed. Tepid liquid slid down, making him grimace. Exactly how long had he been writing?
A glance at the computer clock made him blink. Three thirty. That explained his exhaustion.
He stumbled upright, but a screeching pain in his temples halted him. Curse that migraine. He needed peace.
Groping his way through the hall, he sought the haven of his bedroom. Once inside, his trembling hand reached for the bottle of extra strength aspirins on the night stand. He swallowed them dry then fell face down onto the king-sized waterbed. Its soothing warmth lulled and caressed him, as he slipped into unconsciousness.
Chapter Four
Excitement warred with trepidation as Julie entered the foyer of Harbor View, the condominium jewel of Chicago’s Gold Coast. Sunlight and chandeliers twinkled across caramel colored marble walls, depicting elegance at its finest. She smiled in appreciation, knowing the hefty income from her law firm couldn’t even pay a month’s rent in this palace. That’s all right. She was satisfied with what she’d accomplished. Going to law school while working full time as a secretary hadn’t been easy. Many times she’d forced her eyes to remain open so she could study for an exam when her body craved sleep. Getting a law degree and passing the Bar exam meant too much to give in to human frailties. She wanted a better life and would not settle for less.
Time spun back twenty-five years. Julie warily watched her father remove the training wheels from the pretty pink bicycle he and Mom had scrimped to buy for her.
She’d much rather be safe and keep her training wheels. Intercepting the look on Julie’s face, Dad paused in his adjustments and gathered her tiny hands into his giant palms.
“Don’t be afraid, my dear. Anything’s possible when you try hard enough. If you don’t, you’ll miss out on a lot. Remember, to really live, you’ll need to take risks.”
He helped her onto the shiny vinyl seat, jangled the bell and gave the bicycle a slight push. Soon Julie was off, flying down the street, rejoicing in her newfound freedom. Without that push in the right direction, she’d have hobbled on her training wheels forever.
In the years to follow, she’d adopted her father’s advice. It had worked well for her, but not for her parents. An early onset of macular degeneration robbed Dad of his accounting job and he’d wound up a telephone solicitor. Mom became a waitress to supplement their waning income.
Julie had looked forward to easing their burdens, but that pleasure had been denied her. Her parents’ long deserved vacation had turned deadly, swiping them from her months before she’d passed the Bar. Thinking of the airline’s ominous call to her at school still made her tremble.
Clamping her teeth together, Julie fought back a wave of loneliness. Though it had been over six years ago, she still couldn’t get over her parents’ passing.
She must be strong. They’d want her to be happy. Might-have-beens were for mopers, not doers.
Julie’s steps quickened. She introduced herself to the doorman, who checked her identification, then led her to an elevator hidden in a nook.
He motioned inside the open elevator. “This will take you directly to the penthouse, Miss. The public area will be to your left. Someone will meet you upstairs to show the way.”
Julie caught a glimpse of Burberry carpeting and mahogany paneling. What looked like brass ballet bars extended around the cab’s perimeters. An even more elaborate chandelier than the one she’d seen in the lobby cast a twinkling glow over the geometrically patterned cloth lining the walls. As she often did before riding a strange elevator, she automatically checked for and found the hatch, located a few feet to the right of the chandelier. It was important to know how to get out, just in case.
That clear in her mind, she reached to press a lit button. The doorman stopped her. “That one leads downstairs to Mr. Jensen’s private garage. You want the one beside it. That will take you to the penthouse, Miss.”
“Thanks.”
My, my, Jensen had his own garage. Lord knows what this little luxury costs him. Deeded parking spaces alone were outrageous in this area.
The elevator swayed as it ascended. Her heart skittered and banged. She was trapped. The floor numbers flew by in dizzying succession up to sixty, speeding higher and higher.
She was at the mercy of moving cables, which at any moment could stall or break. She might dangle for hours in this opulent cell or instantly plunge to her death. Still faster and higher she climbed. Perspiration clung to her forehead. She felt faint. Memories of another time and another elevator flashed through her mind. She wasn’t there now, but the knowledge didn’t help.
You can do this, you’re perfectly safe. The Great Tyler Jensen
wouldn’t own just any old elevator. He’d make sure it worked.
At thought of the enigmatic mystery writer, her mouth dried.
With barely a jolt, the cab stopped, signaling the journey’s end. Julie breathed a sigh of relief, which caught in her throat at the realization that any minute she’d face Jensen.
She conjured up a wild scenario which made her heart flip. The mystery writer had invited her here to attend a very private workshop. She was the only student and the lessons were far removed from writing.
Julie hesitated, a solitary figure at the top of the world. The doors yawned open. What would she find outside? Would it be all she’d hoped? She better get off and find out before the doors closed and trapped her. With a deep breath, she stepped out into the foyer where she was greeted by two sets of thick, tall wooden doors, one to the right, the other the left.
The doorman had said to go to the left. Before she could begin to locate a doorbell there or try to knock, the doors swung open, revealing the sultry brunette from the conference, clad in a crimson business suit, short tight skirt and tall heels.
So, this is how it is. Julie fought back a wave of disappointment at the dash of her silly imaginings.
“You are--?” the brunette prompted.
“Julie McGuire.”
“Follow me.” The woman turned and marched down a hallway lined with bold abstract art. The paintings’ bright colors made Julie dizzy as she zoomed past, trying to keep up. She stifled uncharitable hopes of the siren twisting her ankles in the three inch heels. It didn’t make sense to feel dislike for someone she’d barely met. The brunette stopped abruptly and waved toward an open door. “In there.”
Julie thanked her and slipped inside. A shiny glass table dominated a major portion of the room. Above it loomed a gigantic crystal tier chandelier. Tyler certainly had a thing for chandeliers. They were all over the place in this building.
Three middle aged women sat frowning, looking displeased at the sight of more competition. Apparently she wasn’t the only one who fantasized about Jensen.
Killer Career Page 3