by Pamela Crane
THE
ART
OF
FEAR
THE
ART
OF
FEAR
PAMELA CRANE
Tabella House
Raleigh, North Carolina
Copyright © 2017 by Pamela Crane
Tabella House
Raleigh, NC
www.tabellahouse.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
www.pamelacrane.com
Cover by Vanessa Maynard
ISBN: 978-1-940662-114 (hardcover)
ISBN: 978-1-940662-084 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-940662-091 (eBook)
Other books by Pamela Crane:
The Little Things That Kill Series
The Scream of Silence
The Art of Fear
The Death of Life
The Mental Madness Series
A Fatal Affair
The Admirer’s Secret
The Killer Thriller Series
A Secondhand Lie
A Secondhand Life
This book is dedicated to you.
May fear never hold you back. May it never change you from who you’re meant to be.
Prologue
Chapter 1
Rosalita
Chapter 2
Ari
Chapter 3
Josef
Chapter 4
Ari
Chapter 5
Ari
Chapter 6
Ari
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Ari
Chapter 9
Ari
Chapter 10
Sophia Alvarez
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Ari
Chapter 13
Ari
Chapter 14
Ari
Chapter 15
Rosalita
Chapter 16
Ari
Chapter 17
Ari
Chapter 18
Rosalita
Chapter 19
Ari
Chapter 20
Ari
Chapter 21
Ari
Chapter 22
Josef
Chapter 23
Tina
Chapter 24
Ari
Chapter 25
Ari
Chapter 26
Tina
Chapter 27
Ari
Chapter 28
Ari
Chapter 29
Ari
Chapter 30
Ari
Chapter 31
Ari
Chapter 32
Ari
Chapter 33
Rosalita
Chapter 34
Ari
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Ari
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Ari
Chapter 39
Ari
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Ari
Chapter 42
Ari
Chapter 43
Mercedes
Chapter 44
Ari
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
A Final Word
Want more from Pamela Crane?
A preview of A Secondhand Life …
Do the thing you fear most and the death of fear is certain.
— Mark Twain
Prologue
Durham, North Carolina
April 2016
Death is a beautiful thing, if you think about it. Elegant, even. That moment when every touch, every taste, every teardrop electrifies each cell. Imagine it—delicate crimson droplets and bruised hues of purple and yellow all creating a palette of color on an endless hide canvas. Then there’s the sweet smell of sweat as panic sets in and the pungent coppery tang that accompanies that first slice of flesh. The soothing sound of a blade working its way through a crackle of skin, then sinking dully through fatty tissue, at last finding its resting place in the slosh of blood.
Mere minutes after the penetration is the calming realization that the end is near. A peaceful cocktail of reflection and fear.
Then serenity.
The ultimate freedom from the taut restraints of life. The bindings that hold one back from experiencing true sovereignty. You become the master of your own fate through death. There is nothing more comforting than that.
How is that not eminently exquisite?
And more to the point, will you not find it equally magnificent when I intimately introduce you to it—death?
Even years after I first laid eyes on you, I still find you captivating. Your high cheekbones and contemplative eyes like shiny pennies drew me into the artful composition that was your face. Your features promised a hopeful future of attraction and self-worth. It was my appreciation for beauty and art that slaughtered my resolve to kill you back then.
Words like slaughtered make me tingle. Not in the sense of a sociopath hungry for blood. I’m no sociopath. In fact, I love what I do. I feel joy in opening these gifts given to me—gifts that keep on giving as they free me to free them. It’s all about them, really.
These pretty creatures turned ugly by life. Disfigured by pain.
Now, however, no amount of outward loveliness can save you, for I know your blemished heart. Only I can save you now.
I close my eyes, letting the visions engulf me. I imagine every heated moment as I first slip into your home. It’s dark and empty, but I smell you. Not the vanilla lotion you lather all over your skin, but an intoxicating earthy scent of grit and determination. I snake around your sparse living room furniture, padding across the dull carpet, heading into your bedroom. There I open your closet door, my fingers frisking the mixture of cotton and polyester clothing hanging from a metal bar, all cheaply made garments that scratch my fingertips.
Pushing the hangers aside, I slither against the wall, adjusting the fabric to hide me. I gingerly close the bifold door behind me, peeking through the slats into the gaping darkness as evening falls heavily. There I wait, my breaths shallow and calm, belying the anticipation that sets my heart pumping excitedly.
When I hear the click of the front door, I know the time has come. First the pale light that reaches across the hallway, narrowly slicing through the bedroom. Then keys clattering against the throwback periwinkle countertop. The thump of your kitchen-sink-sized hobo bag beside them. The soft steps across the trampled carpet as you head toward me.
A moment later a blast of light brightens the bedroom, but I’m hidden in shadows. I must practice patience, waiting for just the right moment.
Then it arrives. Through a crack I watch your silhouette slide past me and hear your footsteps on the bathroom linoleum. I am officially between you and the only means of escape, and that is my cue.
Soundless, I push the closet door fully open, careful to keep my attention on the corner of the bedroom where the bathroom door hangs ajar. Your figure creates dark waves against the bathroom light, the back-and-forth movement following along the carpet. I watch as it
disappears further into the bathroom. The toilet flushes, and I pace forward. A rush of water from the sink, and I know your back is toward me.
I must move quickly, keeping to the side to avoid being seen too easily in the mirror. But by the time you do see me, I’ll already have overpowered you.
Softly I step into a puddle of light that drenches me. Yet you do not notice my movement behind you. Within two steps I’m directly behind you, a hot wet breath away, and you see my reflection smiling back at you and you yelp. As you turn, one hand presses to your mouth, the other plunges a knife into your abdomen—knowing I hit the inferior vena cava, something CSI: Miami taught me—and you slink to the floor in a heap of gasping pain and fingers clutching my arm as your cries dwindle to whimpers.
Vivid red blossoms into the threads of your shirt, and your trill of fear gives me goose bumps. I kneel beside you, still holding my palm to your face. I’m numb to your watery eyes hovering over mine, pleading but unable to focus, like two egg yolks. All I see is fading fear and encroaching peace take over you—tranquility for us both.
As I relish the euphoria, a jerking sensation overtakes me, waking me to a reality where you are a parking lot away. I open my eyes, but I don’t let it spoil the moment.
I glance down at my wandering hand, my dull nails biting and scraping across my flesh, but it’s not your skin I’m tearing at. I’m disappointed at the reality.
Sitting in my car quivering after the finale, the distance between me and you saddens me. These are the moments I live for but rarely get to enjoy. It’s a recurring dream that is usually out of reach, but I find peace in the knowledge it will soon be in my grasp.
While some may accidentally stumble into my radar, you are special. You’re chosen. Predestined. There’s a point of no return in life, when you’ve stomped too hard on someone else’s territory and smashed too many hopes. Take most families—masters at the art of loss. Negligently losing their children for the sake of their own selfish wants. Rather than sacrifice, they toss their children to the wolves.
They’re filled with fear. Fear of too little money. Fear of change. Fear of loss.
It all boils down to fear.
That’s the problem.
Luckily for you, I’m a master at the art of fear.
I’ve been watching, waiting patiently for my turn to move. For days I plotted and planned, a farmer tending his crop until the harvest. With my scythe in hand, I’m ready to reap a grim yield.
At last your turn has arrived. Let the countdown wind down until your death.
I relish the anticipation.
Perhaps you will be the final masterpiece I create. Or perhaps you’re only the beginning.
Chapter 1
Rosalita
San Luis, Mexico
1976
As the baby snuggled up against her milk-swelled breast, Rosalita Alvarez knew—they say a mother’s instinct can defy logic—there was something evil about him. Something broken. Something sinful behind those coal-black eyes.
Four tiny teeth peeked out from unyielding pink gums slathered in spittle and breast milk. The emerging white tips were crooked yet sharp, pinchers that could draw blood if clamped hard enough. Although he was her first, Rosalita innately understood it was the way of a baby—always testing the limits of a mama’s endurance. The opener being the labor pains as her body nearly split in half at the baby’s arrival. Then months of sleeplessness at the cries of hunger or need for comforting. And one mustn’t forget the excruciating tenderness during breastfeeding, coupled with the dwindling stores of energy the baby stole during these round-the-clock feedings.
Indeed, motherhood shook and rattled a mama’s previous life until she shattered into unrecognizable bits of her former self, then pieced herself back together into a shape-shifting puzzle of worries and what-ifs, memories and meaningful firsts. At the first strangled cry a mama dutifully retreated into nonexistence while the baby became all that she was, is, and ever would be. It was both beautiful and horrifying how a squirming little creature with dimpled fingers and a ridiculous round ball of a head could overpower one’s self-will so easily, inspiring both heartbreak and adoration with a sharp cry or playful chuckle.
Yes, motherhood shook Rosalita awake from a sleep she never realized was her former life. Such extremes of joy and ache, all at the hands of the baby boy she now cradled in her weary arms. Her eyelids weighted down with exhaustion as her surroundings faded to black, then sprung back alive at the baby’s squiggling arms and legs.
Rosalita sat with her child in the living room of the concrete block bungalow. On the outside the blocks were unpainted and mildewed; inside, they had been a vibrant burgundy once upon a time, when her father had first painted them when she was a little girl, but they had faded over time to the color of a fresh bruise. The blocks met the soot-stained plaster ceiling, cracked and buckling from a leaky tin roof, in jagged lines. The beige floor tiles, freshly mopped, were cool beneath Rosalita’s bare feet as she attempted to rock the baby to sleep, but the worn sofa offered precious little give to the gentle back and forth.
The wooden front door hung open, its orange paint brightened by a feverish sun sweeping across it, but the warm air was breezeless and suffocating today. An old rattletrap, belching great plumes of smoke, bumped along the dirt road, its grinding gears and blaring mariachi music momentarily drowning out the calls of the children at play. From the sofa Rosalita had a ringside seat of the doings in her humble San Luis, Mexico, barrio—the porch sitters pecking for gossip, the raggedy culo rummaging through trashcans and dumpsters, the sweat-drenched men replacing a rusty tin roof, the teen lovers exploring each other’s charms in shadowy alleyways. Beating the dry heat of the listless summer afternoon required cleverness. A resourceful youth had figured out how to open a fire hydrant, attracting a throng of kids and even some free-spirited adults to splash in the cool torrent.
Dust from her shared front yard billowed around the scurrying feet of children playing Red Rover, an American game in which a team of children, clutching hands, invites a child from the opposing team to hurl him or herself against their chain with the intention of breaking through—until, as was the case today, the children inevitably collapsed in a heap of wriggling legs and arms. Even after years of watching the game unfold, Rosalita had yet to figure out the rules or logic behind such a violent premise. What ever happened to the simple, diplomatic games like el patio de mi casa—or as the Americans called it, Ring Around the Rosie—that she had grown up enjoying?
A squeal. Then a gurgling coo.
Gazing down at her son, Rosalita swaddled him as he restlessly squirmed, his fussing rising to an ear-splitting squall. His cheeks reddened with fury; he balled his chubby hands into fists and kicked angrily. Closing her eyes against this fitful backdrop, the words came out in a whisper, then hung over his unfurling screams as the Spanish lullaby her mother once sang to her cast its spell:
“A la nanita nana nanita ella, nanita ella. Mi niño tiene sueño bendito sea, bendito sea.
My boy is sleepy, blessed be, blessed be.
Little fountain running clearly and profoundly.
Nightingale that in the jungle sings sadly,
hush while the cradle rocks.”
The mellow tune eventually soothed him, her voice sweet and pure like the molasses her abuela spoon-fed her as a child. Though his cries ceased, Rosalita’s eyes remained shut, for she couldn’t muster the courage to watch her monstrous creation as his mouth sought her brown nipple for nourishment.
By all appearances he was a normal child. Deeply olive-skinned like his father, coarse black ringlets like his mother. Cheeks thick with baby fat, legs wobbly with uncertainty.
Always probing, always watching … but not in the curious way that infants do. There was a knowing behind his piercing black eyes. An eerie darkness. Rosalita first noticed it when he was about six months old.
“He’s evil, I tell you,” she had once confided in her husband, Eduardo.
“How can you say such things of our mijo?” Eduardo demanded. “Your lack of sleep makes you loco like your mama,” he added with a stern glare, then a warning that no such nonsense should be spoken of again.
While those dark thoughts remained buried in her nightmares from that day onward, the intimate fear of its truth never abated. Day after day Rosalita looked upon her son with a foreboding knowledge that something wasn’t right … El diablo, perhaps, clung to him, devouring his infantile virtue.
A gentle tug on her deflated breast forced her awareness downward, where her gaze met her son’s. Though a baby, he was no longer a newborn. He had already cultivated his own cruel brand of humor. Crawling gave him independence, clearly savored as he destroyed every object within reach.
With her flesh firmly tucked between his taut lips, his raven eyes met hers—soulless orbs in which she saw twin reflections of her haggard face. A chilly smile played upon the little brown face.
“Okay, Josef, time to let go,” she urged, pressing her pinkie between his jaws to unlock his grip.
But he only became more resolute.
She probed again, firmer still.
Again he resisted with a sly grin, then he looked at her, his eyes alien and spiteful.
It happened so swiftly that the details rolled over each other like angry waves. A screech, a sharp flick, a wailing sob, a rivulet of blood trickling down her flushed skin, soaking into the folds of fabric at her waist. Amid the pain she nearly tossed Josef to the floor … nearly, but caught herself. Roughly dropping him down beside her on the cushion, Rosalita gripped her chest, examining the injury through the fresh blood oozing out. The wound had disfigured her nipple as he ripped at it with his teeth, leaving a vulnerable gash upon the callused peak. Cursing him, she pressed a soiled burp cloth to her chest, soaking up the oozing blood.
From his upright pose beside her, the baby giggled with fascination at her wound-tending antics. Bits of flesh showed between his teeth in a crimson smirk. Warily fishing through his mouth with her index finger, his jaw clamped down. She cried out and tugged the finger free with a smart pop.
