by Richard Lee
“Honey, why was the door locked?”
Well, fuck me, Jerry’s home early.
I felt frozen for years, until Jerry McDee finally stood in the doorway. His mouth dropped open and the keys and newspaper fell from his hands.
I had left the dagger lying on his wife’s body, so he would know what I had done.
He wasn’t any goodie-two-shoes and what goes around comes around, motherfucker.
He eyed the dagger a long time. I wondered what was going through his head. I should have charged him in the moment of shock. But I waited. I wanted to see it. I wanted him to recognize me and to know when that happened, I needed to watch his eyes. They would change. They would become the cruel hard eyes of the fifteen-year-old I had known and hated.
But it didn’t happen.
I saw anger, but not the fifteen-year-old.
He suddenly charged me and boy, was he fast. I was unprepared and he took me low. His shoulder slammed into my stomach. My breath whooshed out and I crumpled over his shoulder.
Jerry McDee was strong, very fucking strong, more than I remembered. My back shoulder muscles screamed. Everything was blurry and set to slow motion without sound.
I didn’t see his foot rise, but I sure as hell felt it crash into the side of my face. I felt my cheekbone crack, felt the upper half tear the skin and expose itself. Pulling myself into a ball with my hands covering my face, I waited for the next blow with closed eyes, but it never came.
“Look.”
The word popped into my head. It was the familiar sound of my friend. The “giver” of the book.
I was facing a mirror.
In it, Jerry McDee was hugging his wife’s head. He was kneeling on the floor and had pulled his wife to him. His words came out in spits and spats as his sobs broke through. His back was to me. That was a mistake.
I felt absolutely nothing for him.
The dagger was still on her stomach.
Slowly I stood up. Walked behind him. I listened to him sobbing, then grabbed his hair and yanked his head back. His eyes were red and swollen.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” I said. The words hissed from me.
Jerry’s elbow swung into my solar plexus and I went down. He was on me instantly, his fist pounding my face.
I brought my knee up into his ass and he shot forward. My hands grabbed his waist and I flipped him overhead. I spun a hundred and eighty degrees on the carpet and swung my right leg at his face. He blocked it with his forearm.
He was on his feet faster than I was.
He grabbed my collar and hoisted me to my feet. Viciously he shoved me against the wall and spat in my face.
Ah, at last he remembered me.
“Payback’s a bitch, ain’t it?” I said with a bloody smile. Blood slid down the side of my neck, but I felt no pain.
“Fuck you, Peter,” Jerry spat the words at me. Suddenly, his head slammed into the bridge of my nose.
The sound of his baby crying broke his concentration on the fight. He turned in the direction of the baby’s sound. My left hand shot out. The dagger flew to it. Jerry turned back to me. I shoved it into the side of his neck and twisted it.
He didn’t cry out. I did. I screamed at the top of my lungs. It hurt my throat. It was a primal scream of victory.
Jerry was staring at me, his body shaking.
I yanked the dagger to his collarbone. Blood spewed from his mouth. His hands grabbed my shoulders. He tried to say something, but I pushed his head away. The dagger sliced through half of his neck as his body fell to the floor.
I slid down the back of the wall, crossed my legs and watched him die, all the while with the baby crying in the background.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Professor Dale Cotter rubbed his eyes. It was hard reading off the computer screen. Not only did he have to use the scroll down button, but also the background was harsh against the words. He glanced at the clock. Only thirty minutes had passed and already his eyes were sore. Holographic books were a lot better. There must have been a lot of people wearing no glare, yellow glasses in the past, he thought.
He closed the file and opened “My Documents.” Entry 1-4 was next. He hoped not all the entries were about Peter’s wonderful time killing. He needed something personal, needed some way to find an answer. He wanted to know why Terry Cotter, his ancestor, had been killed.
Slowly he rose from his seat and went to a glass cabinet standing against the far wall, near the entrance to the kitchen. It had a small key lock embedded in the sliding glass.
It wasn’t locked and the professor slid the door open. From inside he pushed several small glass dogs aside and removed the false back. He smiled and leaned it against the glass dogs, then removed the tattered diary of Terry Cotter.
This was all he had of his ancestor, and it was worth a fortune. Hardback and cloth covered with the initials T.C embroidered in large, sloping dark blue letters. He handled the book gently, returning to his chair.
The pages were stiff and yellowed from time. Some parts of the pages were too faint to see as the black ink had faded into nothingness, but the blue ink was still readable.
He had received the book from his mother’s lawyer during the reading of her will. He had received everything from the will. His brother was never mentioned. From the tender age of thirteen, Kyle had stumbled onto the wrong side of the law and mother had stumbled away from him. She had no idea that he and Kyle were so close. Best friends who were also brothers, from childhood to present day.
Professor Dale Cotter went straight to the back of the diary. He found the last entry eight pages from the rear. It was the only entry not dated. He had assumed she was going to put the date in later, but never had the chance.
She never had the chance because that bastard killed her.
He had always known that the most revered name in the history of sales was her killer.
He tried to read the entry again, but found his eyes too tired, and a little too sore, to focus on the faded words.
“Computer, audio track private 77,” he said.
Almost seven years ago he had read the entire diary into the computer, numbered the entries from 1 through 78. Now he could listen to the entire diary and imagine he was listening to Terry. He chose standard voice tones and old style accent. All of it he found on the net. But he wanted Terry to sound different; he didn’t want any old computer generated voice. There his brother helped again, providing a natural speaking program, illegal in all countries. He also provided a fake serial number so the government (all downloads were logged) would think he had downloaded an accounting program.
The professor chose a female voice, slightly husky but very clear to hear. He wanted to listen to a woman telling her story. Closing his eyes, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed them gently, waiting for the computer to load up the track fully before playing. The house computer was old, like him. Its processor was so slow. Only 138 gigabytes to run the house, the Net, his daily living chores (like food and drink), holographic movies, and transportation to and from work. He didn’t want to update the processor and was content to wait a minute or two.
The woman’s voice drifted out of the house speakers built in the walls. Each word sounded so real with his eyes closed. His image of Terry was a dark haired girl with bedroom brown eyes, crystal clear complexion with a face shaped between a V and a circle. Her build was slight but with decent sized breasts. He knew what her job was. Terry was very open about that in the diary, but probably secret in daily life, which is why he added a husky tone to the program preferences.
Every time he listened to the audio version of the diary, he pictured her in a short white leather miniskirt with smooth lightly tanned and nicely toned legs. And she always wore a black lace rimmed shirt when she spoke. It was wonderful.
With all he had done to create Terry, he realized he had created his perfect woman, yet he felt no sexual stirrings with his image and voice. After all, she was blood.<
br />
“Entry number seventy seven,” the computer said. “Would you like the lights dimmed and mood music to play lightly in the background?”
“No,” the professor said. This was the only part of the program he hated. The damn program’s questions and advice. But he couldn’t complain about a black market product. Who could he complain to? No one, that’s who. “As is,” his brother always said. The program was built for people who had oversized sexual appetites and no one to complete them with.
“Please specify video file to accompany audio.”
Her voice was sexy, not in your face sexy but soft, slightly hinting of something else lurking deep inside waiting for its chance to break free and explore.
“No video. Audio only, thank you.” He felt the mood dying, but then the voice started reading and he relaxed totally. The mood returned.
“Last night’s score tried to short change me, the bastard. I had John the Driver visit him for full payment. John the Driver is a nice guy, sweet as ice cream, but he’s built like a brick shit house. And as tough as nails when need be. He likes me and I’ve given him a few freebies in the past year.
“God, I’ve got to get out of this low level shit. I met up with Laura last week, as I said before, and she called this morning. Looks like I get the chance to prove if I’m high class enough. She said one of the girls was leaving for school.
“Anyway, there’s this regular, don’t know his name yet, but Laura’s willing to take the chance with me on him. Said he’s a real nice guy and would understand if I say I’m new to the game.
“Don’t know if I’ll say that. He’s most likely a real loser and ugly as hell. Never mind, had a few like that in my time, even when I wasn’t charging for it.
“I’m kind of nervous. I mean, Laura’s agency is very high class and probably miles out of my league. But I feel I have to take a chance and I’m sure this is the way to go.
“Some extra news. I got a package in the post today. No sender’s address on the box but it was addressed to me so I opened it. Inside was a small book. At first I couldn’t read the title, but then it just suddenly came to me. English is the only language I can read and speak, yet I understood all these squiggles and circles with crossing lines.
“A wish for the Devil, is what it’s called. I opened the cover and flicked through the pages. Apart from the first two pages, the rest of the book was blank. At the time, I thought it was some sort of prank, you know, a sales gimmick. Expensive sales test, I thought. So I checked the wrapping for the price of the postage and I couldn’t find the fucking stamp or even those wavy lines at the top. You know the stamp that says it’s been checked through.
“If it was a sales gimmick, it had me suckered enough to check out the first two pages.
“It was chock-a-block with all those strange letters and signs that, somehow, I instantly knew and understood. It said something along the lines, that if I...”
“End of audio private seventy-seven. Would you like audio file private seventy-seven point five?” the computer asked.
The professor leaned forward in his chair. Mention of the book had grabbed his attention. He was looking for a connection, and there it was. If he had Peter’s journal years earlier, he would know about this mysterious book and never wonder why she mentioned it. And he would have understood the bloodstain on the page, which hid her next few words.
He repeated her words, “It said something along the lines, that if I...” He smiled. “Now I know how that sentence finished, Terry.” He nodded. The pieces of his puzzle slotted together nicely now, although there was still a pile of pieces yet to be added.
He stood up and stretched, letting out a large sigh as he righted his bent back.
A thought suddenly occurred and he spoke it out loud.
“If you had the book, Terry, why did you still work? Surely everything you ever wanted was now available to you.” He didn’t realize he was pacing back and forth, running these thoughts, while carrying the book, using his fingers as a bookmark.
“Computer,” he said, “Audio file private 78.”
“Loading,” the husky voice said.
The dried blood. He’d considered many years ago to get a DNA photo of Terry. But he’d feared many questions about the old sample. Where did he find it? Was it a private collection? Was the collection registered? There were too many questions to expose his valuable possession. He could have gone to the black market, but those people were more dangerous than the government. Well, they were more physically dangerous.
He couldn’t risk any exposure. The cons outweighed the pros. But suddenly he really wanted it done. He suddenly felt, after all these years, that he needed to know what she looked like. The photo image wouldn’t be accurate, but he would get an image and could feed that information into the house computer and have a hologram reading the diary.
“Audio file private 78 is ready.”
He pushed the DNA photo out of his mind for now and returned to his chair, but he didn’t lean back and relax. Instead he sat forward and listened intently to every little word. Words that he had memorized over the years, listening for anything he might have missed.
The husky voice wafted out from all corners of the room. The words of the past danced to the professor.
“I know Laura will call today. I did what the book said, but I had no choice. God, I’m still shaking. A man tried to break into my house last night. Well, tried is the wrong word. Let’s say the asshole did.
“I had just finished my bath and was drying myself off, when I heard glass break. It happens a lot in the neighborhood where I live, but it never sounds like it’s coming from my kitchen window. Shit.
“I had to check it out. I was naked under the towel, so there was no way I was gonna run outside screaming for help. No one would listen. No one cared. From under the sink I looked for a weapon. All I found was liquid soap in a green squeeze bottle.
“Then I heard a voice in the bathroom with me, even though I locked it.
“Are you planning to clean him?”
“I spun around and faced the dark guy I explained about earlier. The man who explained that book to me. He’s the one that encouraged me to sign. He must be the head salesman of Hell. Ha. I can laugh about it now, but at the time I was terrified. He was leaning against the door.
“An altar will give you real power,” he said.
“In his hand he had a dagger. For a crazy second I thought he was the person who had broken in. God, I could hear footsteps in the kitchen and they were coming this way.
“You need this,” the salesman said, holding out the dagger to me. I took it from him and unlocked the bathroom door. I saw the guy in the hallway. He was huge and covered in muscle. It looked like the guy had no neck. He charged me and I froze, holding the dagger in front of me with both hands.
“He crashed into me and I fell to the floor with him on top. His face was distorted like he was suffering some sort of immense pain. Then I felt warm liquid soaking through my towel. It was sticky. Mr. Muscles sighed, his eyes slowly closed and he fell limp on top of me.
“I looked over at the salesman and he was smiling. “Can you help me, here?” I asked him. He didn’t reply, but came over and picked up the bastard like he was picking up a sleeping child. I crawled out sideways and stood up. What happens next, I wondered, and was about to ask, but the salesman asked, “What do you want?”
“I want to rule the world.”
“The salesman was silent. “It’s just a joke,” I said, lying. “Let me see, the most I want right now is for Laura to give me the job.”
“Done,” the salesman said.
“The dagger shook in my hands, and I dropped it. The hilt was swelling and suddenly Mr. Muscles vanished. All his blood was gone, sucked into the dagger. The blood on my towel was also gone. And so was the salesman.
“I rushed to the bathroom and with my lipstick I wrote on the mirror, “It happened.”
“I went to the living room,
not bothering to turn on the lights. I sat in the darkness and wondered where I was going to get the money to fix the window before I left the house tomorrow, when I fell asleep.
“The phone woke me this morning. What a dream, I thought, heading to the kitchen for the phone. I had fallen asleep wearing the towel. I must have been dead on my feet yesterday. Recalling the dream I looked at the windows, they were fine. Shit, it seemed so real. I’ve only ever had a few dreams in my life that has felt so real. One was screwing John the Driver. The next time I saw him, I came straight out and asked him. He said he wished he had had the same dream. We both laughed and ended up in bed. What a night that was! You know what? I think he would be a good catch. I wonder if I should try.
“I got the phone. Laura was on the other end and told me tonight was on. And, can you fucking believe this? I’m gonna screw Peter Clement, the most successful guy in the world. He’s the number one bachelor of all time. God, I’m nervous just telling my diary about it. I have no idea what I’m gonna wear, but I have to be hotter than the fires of Hell.
“I wonder why he’s never fallen for someone. Maybe he has and his heart was broken? I don’t know. All I know is, this is my chance to climb the ladder to success. Giving my body for seventy bucks a night just does not cut it. Laura said I wouldn’t get paid for tonight, it depends if Peter likes me or not. I will make him like me. Laura said she pays her girls two hundred dollars a night. The popular girls work four nights a week. Imagine that! A full eight hundred smackaroonies a week. Now wouldn’t that make life easier?
“I looked at the clock. Heck, I thought it was morning but it was almost five. I decided to have a shower and get ready. I needed to be my best for tonight and I was already dressed for a shower, what with wearing only a towel.
“I went to the bathroom, took off my towel, and looked at the mirror. My fingers lost the grip and the towel fell to the floor. In red lipstick I saw the words I had written in my dream. ‘It happened’ stared at me like a killer. I felt my stomach drop and I vomited into the bathtub. Only a small amount came out, I was hacking air more than puke. I collected myself and cleaned up. Peter was waiting.
