Belinda had been prepared for tonight’s sex marathon. Had she done it before? She’d claimed this was a first.
But women lied.
That’s why they had to be punished.
That’s why the bitch had to die.
Rolling his shoulders, he crossed to his Jag and yanked open the door. He grabbed the black duffle and the unopened bottle of wine. Trent eyed the interior door before focusing on the garage ceiling. Ears strained to pick out noises in the silence.
Nothing.
He eased the Jag’s door closed before heading into the house. Tossing the duffle on the chocolate leather sofa, he stripped the foil off the wine, twisted off the cap then dumped a third of it down the sink. He held the bottle up to the recessed halogen lights. “That seems about right.”
Trent set the bottle between foil rounds containing their half-eaten take-out. Rubbing his hands together, he took a deep breath. Time for the main event. His stomach growled in protest. He ran his hand down his flat belly then plucked the untouched breadstick off her pile of fettuccini Alfredo.
Ripping off a bite, he chewed the cold garlic and stiff cheese and unzipped the bag. The hangman’s noose stared back at him. He caressed the slick polyester rope while stuffing the rest of the bread into his mouth. The bitch had asked for all his climbing gear in the divorce. And the judge had given it to her.
Knowing his ex, she’d probably screwed him to get her way.
Her spitefulness would work in his favor, and he’d laugh at the irony as she strangled to death.
Trent pushed the braided rope to the side and fished out the clean room suit. The blue material unfolded and the flat legs slapped the marble floor. After running his greasy fingers through the hair on his thigh, he grasped the tab and unzipped the metal zipper. The polypropylene fabric shuddered as he shook open the bunny suit then stepped inside.
Stiff fabric scratched his bare skin. Shielding his privates, he closed the suit then adjusted the attached hood, making sure all his hair was safely inside. He wouldn’t leave any trace behind like those dip shits who got caught. Rooting around the bag, he pulled out a pair of canvas sneakers and slipped them on. He quickly added the blue surgical mask, nitrile gloves, and a pair of black sunglasses.
Spinning on his heel, he checked his appearance in the stand-alone mirror the slut had used to watch herself being sodomized. He smiled. His reflection did not.
Good. Maybe he’d scare the crap out of his ex before he killed her.
The bitch deserved it.
Just as she deserved to know that he killed her, like she’d allowed his kids to die. Maybe, when she gasped for her last breath, he would reveal his face. Heat flashed through him and his muscles tensed. He sniffed the air—a predator on the hunt. Securing his bag, he picked it up, turned off the lights and walked out the arcadia door.
Night pressed against him, followed quickly by the stench of rot. Trent opened his mouth, tasted the putrefying vegetables and decomposing meat. After months of interrupted service, he should have been used to the stench by now. Should have, but wasn’t. That’s what happened when women were in charge.
Rats swarmed the pile of uncollected garbage, until the mass teemed with pale slithering tails, the flash of teeth and the rasp of gnawing. Holding his hand over his mask, he stormed across the cool deck and opened the wrought iron and wooden gate.
A brisk wind carried away the hinge’s whisper. Trent bit back the urge to laugh. He couldn’t have planned this any better. Stepping into the riparian area connecting all the houses of the development, he looked for movement. Rats, rats, and more rats darted through the overgrown brush.
He was the only predator out tonight.
Gravel crunched under foot and thorns from the creosote trees clawed the bunny suit as he pushed through the foliage toward the cement path winding through the common area. Not far to go. His old house sat just around the corner.
Sticking to the shadows, Trent glanced right then left. Many of the homes had been abandoned in the mortgage crunch. More had been emptied by the Redaction. On the drive through the gated community, he’d counted only three occupied homes.
None were located by his ex.
His feet picked up the pace and his heart kept time. After tonight, he’d have his house back and no alimony payments, along with the added bonus of a cool million in insurance money.
The stupid bitch hadn’t bothered to change the beneficiary.
Sure, the money might raise some eyebrows in the inept police department. But even if some cop did question the suicide, the masochistic slut would swear he was with her the entire time.
It was the perfect murder.
And it was all his.
Swinging the bag, Trent marched up the embankment to his ex’s house. He jiggled the handle and pushed the gate open. The hinges creaked. He eyed the light on in the upper story. The master bedroom. His room, where the bitch had fucked their neighbor and God knew who else, while their children had died of the Redaction. He cracked his knuckles.
Maybe he’d strangle her a little, before he threw her body over the loft.
She deserved to suffer.
He pinched the back door key and shoe covers from his bag then tossed it over his shoulder. And suffer she would. Tonight. Keeping to the stepping stones, he crossed the graveled yard. His sneakers snicked on the patio before he reached the double French doors. Seconds after he stuck the key into the lock, he was inside and slipping on his shoe covers.
Closing his eyes, he waited. One. Two. He detected orange blossoms and ginger from the expensive perfume he’d bought her in Paris two months before she’d ripped out his heart with her manicured nails. On his right, the kitchen tap dripped. The refrigerator clicked then began humming. In the open great room, the red light glowed softly from his fifty-five inch LED TV. He smiled and the surgical mask shifted. It would be nice to have a TV other than that pathetic thirty-two incher she’d left him with.
Tucking the key back into his duffle, he glanced around the room. Same fake black bear rug, black leather loveseats, and glass accent tables. He ran his gloved fingers over the glass dining room table— his before their marriage. And soon, it would be returned to him. Crossing the marble tile, he reached the Art Deco desk shoved in a niche.
His fingers dug into the padded seat of the modern office chair. Wheels scratched at the slate floor before he lifted it. They spun silently as he carried it under the loft. Glancing up, he eyed the wrought iron banister edging the upper floor. He’d hang the bitch right in the middle; she’d always liked being the center of attention.
Bending, Trent lowered the chair on its side to the floor. There, that would make it look like she’d knocked it over. He shrugged off the duffle and reached into the side pocket. The vellum felt crisp despite the gloves. Crossing the room to the double-sided fireplace, he removed one of the red painted rocks on the hearth and propped up the suicide note on the black mantle.
For a moment, he traced his name on the envelope. She’d come off better than she deserved in the note. Much better. The bitch wasn’t the least bit sorry for the death of their children, for leaving him, or for taking his house and TV.
But she should have been.
Trent pinched the metal tab over his nose and rolled his shoulders. Maybe he’d even shed a little tear for the cops when they gave it to him. Nah. She wasn’t worth the salt.
Strolling back to his duffel, he removed a plastic baggy. Underneath the wadded up terrycloth towel, clear liquid rolled along the bottom.
Tomorrow he’d return to the university to visit one of his women. He’d ditch the ether-soaked towel in the university’s dumpster before getting her final signature on her life insurance policy. Hell, maybe he’d even screw the horse-faced skank again. After all, she had helped him kill the bitch.
That deserved a reward.
So he’d screw her and pretend she was her teaching assistant. One woman looked the same as another from behind. Trent tossed the b
ag a little into the air before catching it again. His suit, shoes and paraphernalia would be consigned to the biohazard bins then poof; there’d be no trace to tie him to the bitch’s death.
None.
It was perfect.
Because he was brilliant. Stooping, he latched onto the noose and hooked it around his shoulders. Killing time. He climbed the stairs. Light seeped out from under the master bedroom’s door. A nearly full moon shone through the picture window, tingeing everything in silver.
Boxes lined the loft. Pink ears emerged from the one closest to him. Stopping, he pulled back the flap. Shiny black eyes stared back at him.
“Son of a…” He’d given the pink bunny to his daughter for her fifth birthday. Cardboard bent in his grip. The bitch hadn’t even waited six weeks to pack up their daughter’s belongings. Was their son’s in here too?
Striding across the white carpet, he tugged open the nearest box. A Diamondback’s baseball cap lay atop a pile of clothes. Trent sucked cold air through his teeth. Had she given away the signed baseball? She’d never even asked if he wanted it. Never gave a shit about anyone but herself. He rooted through the clothes for a moment before stopping. No need to look for it now. Soon it would be all his anyway.
He ripped open the baggie. His nose twitched from the sweet scent of ether. Turning his head, he blinked the sting from his eyes. Once his vision cleared, he stormed the short distance to the master bedroom, cranked the knob and shoved open the door. It banged against the drywall.
Sprawled on the king-sized bed, the bitch snorted but didn’t stir. A soft snore accompanied the drool coming out of her mouth. A glass lay on the plush carpet next to an upturned carafe and prescription bottle. Not a drop of wine or a single tablet stained the white carpet.
“Figures.” Losers couldn’t face their failures. Liquid oozed between his fingers and the stench of ether burned his eyes and nose. He held his breath. His chest burned and pressure built up behind his eyes as he sealed the baggie.
Finished, Trent gasped for breath. What a waste. The bitch had done the ether’s job for him. Anger simmered in his belly, radiating heat to his fingers and toes. She probably wouldn’t have the decency to wake up when he killed her. Dropping the baggie, he uncoiled the noose and stalked closer.
The bitch always ruined everything for him.
He set one knee onto the bed and the mattress dipped. Grabbing a fistful of her hair, he lifted her head and eased the loop around her neck.
Not even a flicker of an eyelid. His fingers curled into fists and his arms trembled. He wanted to slap her, wake her. But no, according to those forensics shows, that would leave marks. Gently, he pinched her nostrils shut.
She opened her mouth.
Swearing, Trent slipped his arms under her back and legs, lifting her from the bed. Shadows flickered over them as he straightened. Kicking aside the rope, he glanced at the TV. His son smiled from the screen. Five candles jutted from the group of dinosaurs on the cake.
Trent frowned at the picture. He didn’t remember that birthday. The camera panned the crowd of eager young faces and bored adults. Neither did he see himself. Not that unusual given his hours. But still, the Thomases were there. He’d never touched base with them about a policy. They’d have been worth at least half a million before the Redaction hit. That would have been a nice commission.
His ex mumbled in her sleep.
He juggled his hold until his lips pressed against her ear. “Wake up, babe. It’s almost time to die.”
Nothing.
“You’ve gained weight, you fat bitch.” His growl rumbled through him as he staggered out the door.
“Trent.” She whispered but didn’t open her eyes to look at him. Her foul breath washed over him, penetrated the mask.
He coughed and his mask slipped. Bending, he dropped her to the ground, pulled in the rope, and quickly tied a knot around the banister. He wiped his hands on the bunny suit’s pants before lifting her to her feet. Her head lolled back.
“This is the last time you’ll deprive me of my due.”
He pushed her over the edge. For a moment he thought she opened her eyes. Then she disappeared from view. Leaning over the railing, he watched the rope stretch taut and heard a crack. A moment later, all that remained was the creak of rope as her body swung to and fro.
The bitch didn’t even jerk or claw at the rope around her neck. Trent waited a heartbeat before retrieving the baggie from the bedroom.
He trudged down the stairs, grabbed his duffle and slipped into the night. As if to aid him, the moon slipped behind the cloud. After locking the door, he crossed the yard and crept into the riparian area.
Perfect.
Just as he planned.
Well, not exactly. She hadn’t suffered like she deserved. Still there was Belinda. He could hurt her all he wanted, and she’d still beg for more. Clutching the bag to his chest, he ran through the shadows to her house.
Easing inside the arcadia door, he paused. No sound disturbed the night. She’d never known he was gone. His alibi was intact. Stripping, he stuffed everything into his murder kit then returned it to his Jag. He poured himself a glass of wine then jogged up the stairs.
The smell of evacuated bowels hit him as he walked into the bedroom. What the… In the soft candlelight, he spied the fecal matter between her spread thighs. Wooden legs carried him to her side and he stabbed her neck with two fingers. The skin felt cool to his touch. And worse…
No pulse.
Her chest didn’t rise and fall either.
Rage welled up inside him like an erupting volcano. His ex hadn’t suffered. His fist struck Belinda’s face. His alibi was gone. Her nose crunched under the impact. His arms pumped like pistons—over and over until his lead-filled limbs dragged him down to the side of the bed. Warm blood trickled down his arms and soaked into the bedspread. Covering his face, he choked back a sob.
Why did women have to ruin everything?
Chapter Fifteen
David tucked in his tee shirt as he dodged the puddles on the glistening asphalt. The Colonel wanted to see him; that couldn’t be good. His breath hitched in his lungs. Could Colonel Asshole have figured out that David had told his men about the Redaction’s return?
He wouldn’t put it passed the CO to bug the men’s barracks.
David paused in a circle of light, crouched down and tied his boots. The wet laces slipped through his fingers as he knotted the lengths then tucked them into the side of his boots. Straightening, he fumbled with the zipper of his ACU jacket. His breath fogged the night in bursts of white as he hustled through the camp.
So how was he going to play this?
Rounding the canvas mess hall, he slowed to a jog. He damn sure he wouldn’t let his men take the fall for his actions. In front of him, the administration portable hunkered on its concrete slab. Dead bushes and grass surrounded the raised building.
Wood creaked as he mounted the six steps leading up to the building’s door. His hand closed around the clammy knob before he pulled the reinforced steel door open. Warm air washed over him when he entered, and David fought off the wave of claustrophobia. He was a soldier, meant for the rough conditions of the front line, not a cushy job pushing papers.
The heat pump hummed along as memories pummeled him. For the last six months, the only time he’d been called into this building was to collect the dead. In the recessed ceiling, the fluorescent emergency lights buzzed. Removing his hat, he strode down the long corridor. His footsteps thudded hollowly. Raising his arms, he fingered the empty brass plates next to the closed office doors.
Major Donaldson with her ready smile.
Lieutenant Glen a straitlaced officer, but a hell-raising drinking buddy.
Sergeant Habib—first generation American and damn proud of it.
David rolled his head, releasing the tightness bunching his shoulders. He hated this building. Hopefully, they’d tear it down when this mess was over.
If it ever en
ded.
If anyone was left.
David entered the wide, open space of the secretarial pool. Dust gathered on the papers and files on three of the desks. The fourth was clean and a screen saver danced across the computer monitor.
A map of the city hung on the wall behind it. Red marker outlined their corpse collection territory. As the Redaction progressed, the lines had been redrawn again and again until their collection zone covered nearly a third of Phoenix. Someone posted a sticky note in the center of the map—”See body. Pick up body. Refer men Rule!”
Shaking his head, David wound his way through the desks to the closed door in the opposite wall. A shadow sliced through the light seeping under the door. David squared his shoulders.
No worries.
No indication that he’d done anything wrong.
The CO would sense any weakness like a shark did blood in the water. Tucking his hat in his belt, David rapped on the door three times. The sound echoed through the building like a fading heartbeat.
A second passed.
Then two.
Three. Five. Did the CO ever get tired of these little power plays? The skin over his temple itched. David swiped at the bead of sweat. No sweating either. Sweating implied fear. He didn’t fear Colonel Asshole. But neither did he want to be taken off courier duty.
If his men were to survive the coming extinction event, he needed the information Mavis could provide.
David clasped his hands behind his back and stared at the faux wood-grained door. Knocking again wouldn’t gain him entry. In fact, Colonel Asshole would probably reprimand him for it. He had done it before. Water sprang to his eyes when he yawned. Now that he’d warned his men, he much rather return to his bed and think of Mavis.
The way her long, brown hair brushed her shoulders.
The way her lip full bottom lip curved up just so when she was amused.
Redaction: Extinction Level Event (Part I) Page 13
