KNOWN AROUND TOWN as the creepy Scarecrow Man, Marty was desperate. Life had dealt him a losing hand. Never-ending and insurmountable challenges seemed to be his lot in life. He was broke. Unemployment benefits ended weeks ago. House in foreclosure. Mouths needed fed. His wife was on her deathbed. And he hadn’t had good old fashioned sex for nearly two years.
Newspaper images of a beautiful rich woman in town had captured his attention months ago. He had become fixated on her. Mesmerized. Obsessed. Jewels represented everything he was not. Good looking. Influential. Famous. Wealthy. Sexy. Adored by the public ... the list was painfully long. And for that, he hated her.
To the rescue Butch, Marty’s “alter ego.” Money would solve all of his problems and he knew just how to get it: Jewels would be taken. Held hostage. Savagely restrained. Brutally gagged. Agonized at will. All for public viewing on TV. His magnificent bomb chair was the key. If the explosion didn’t kill her, the assault rifle rigged to fire a bullet into the back of her skull would. There would be no hope of escape. Or rescue. The dead man’s switch anchored to his wrist was the guarantee. Her super cop husband, Marshall Watters, would be powerless and forced to give in to every demand, otherwise helplessly watch Jewels endure his torturous wrath.
Or will he?
Marty and his alter ego could not amply prepare for Marshall’s knack for solving tough hostage situations, often unconventionally. Nor could they comprehend the depth of his love for Jewels. Factors that may ultimately become a huge disadvantage.
Yet orchestrating a flawless extraction of Jewels from the well thought out and deadly bomb chair won’t be easy. Marshall will have to outwit Marty—and Butch—to save Jewels before the bomb explodes or her head is blown off. Such a feat may appear doable. But there’s a bigger problem: Jewels’ strong will and defiance. And her relentless pursuit to free herself. Jewels’ disobedience to her captor and failed escape attempts rapidly escalate the danger to her, Marshall and the others assembled to help.
Will Jewels survive the explosive intentions of this desperate family man driven to madness? And if she does, what will be the consequence of her freedom?
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Read on for a sneak preview of ULTIMATE TRUST.
Ultimate Trust excerpt
“When this monster entered my brain, I will never know, but it is here to stay. How does one cure himself? I can’t stop it, the monster goes on, and hurts me as well as society. Maybe you can stop him. I can’t.” —BTK serial killer, Dennis Rader
Prologue
SHE’S ALL YOURS, Butch assured.
Standing there gritting his teeth, resentment simmering near the surface, he scrutinized the latest New Greensburgh Times newspaper article about her.
She’s all yours, Butch repeated, this time with more force.
Gazing at the newspaper engagement photo of sexy Julia Andrasy, soon to be Julia Watters, he unzipped his pants. Stuffed his hand inside, fingers resting on the outside of his boxers.
Go ahead. Tie her up, Butch directed.
Marty’s eyes fluttered. Brow creased. Raked his teeth over his bottom lip. The vision percolated. And just like that, Jewels lie on the dirty garage floor in front of him, long blonde hair fanned across the cement, big blue eyes blinking up innocently at him, duct tape binding her ankles together and wrists behind her back....
Duct tape? Namby-pamby! Come on, you can do better than that. Get creative, Butch demanded.
Image revised ... now she lie brutally bound with barbed wired, the small razor-like spikes biting into her bronzed skin, shredding and tearing delicate flesh. No longer flawless and pretty, her tear-stained face wildly contorts in deep agony. Once unblemished shimmering lips are now dull from the sprinkling of floor grit sticking to them. Silky golden locks rumple into a tangled mess as she twists and turns her body in misery. The hem of her short black skirt inches up shorter, closer to the top of her thighs. Her back arches, brimming breasts heave in the low-cut semi-sheer pink blouse, the darker skin tone of her areolas peek out of the embellished bra.
Hand snuggling deeper inside his underwear. Squeezing. Rubbing. The mental vision of the pretty rich woman under his control made him feel strong. Potent. Invincible.
Bring her a little closer. Get a little more personal, Butch instructed.
Wham! On his workbench she lie on her back, arms stretched above her head, wrists bound together with barbed wire, the ends nailed securely into the plywood tabletop. Messed up yellow hair snags in the tines of the barbed wire, pulling out clumps of blonde strands by the roots. Big blue eyes once sparkling and bright reduce to tear-swollen slits radiating fear. And pain.
What else? Come on, you want to see more. You want to see skin.
Short tight skirt, fancy blouse disappears. Her voluptuous body quakes within a lacy pink bra and matching bikini panties. Sweat dots tanned, firm skin. Belly button, round and perfect, pulses with each anguish-filled breath.
You want to see her breasts. Bare.
Bra vanishes, revealing sensual mounds of flesh pebbled with goosebumps, topped with nipples profoundly constricted.
You want to see down there. Between her legs.
Barbed wire coiled around her ankles and nailed to the plywood keep her legs forcefully splayed to the edges of the workbench. The flaxen triangular puff at her loins beckons investigation. Can’t resist. Whiskers graze the inside of her quivering thighs. Draws in a lung full of her scent. Sucks deep and hard. Nostrils flatten. It’s been a long time since he inhaled pussy ... real or imagined.
You want to hear her.
“Please, Mister Loomis, don’t hurt me...,” she tearfully begs, addressing him as mister out of respect. Out of fear. “Mister Loomis, please don’t kill me....” But her big blue eyes and pitiful pleas will have no persuasive power over him. All her buckets of money can’t buy her out of this one. Nor can her tough-guy fiancé rescue her. No, her future rests solely at his whim. Shall he grant her life? Or execute a death sentence? The power is his. And without a doubt, he knows the pretty rich woman knows it. He is a god!
And so his sadistic fantasy proceeded within the privacy of the dumpy detached garage. A hallowed man cave, kept under strict lock and key. His personal sanctuary to indulge in the black delusions fostered by Butch, or Triple B, short for Big Bad Butch, he sometimes called the demon inside.
Unquestionably, life had dealt Marty Loomis a losing hand. Absent were good looks and a warm personality. Never-ending and insurmountable challenges seemed to be his lot in life. Currently, he was broke. Didn’t have a job. Unemployment benefits ended weeks ago. His house was in foreclosure. Had mouths to feed. Marianne needed a new heart. And he hadn’t had good old fashioned sex for nearly two years.
Ahhhh. Triple B to the rescue.
It had been nearly twenty years since Butch had first made himself known and a day he would never forget. It was a Wednesday afternoon, high school had just let out for the day. Marty hurried along, cutting across the swath of lawn near the edge of the parking lot hastening toward the waiting school bus. But, once again, Dirk Proffer—captain of the football team, head cheerleader’s boyfriend, and undisputed king of school bullies—ambushed him, kicked him in the ass, knocked him to the ground. Nothing new. But this time, Marty’s head happened to land near a fresh pile of dog shit. Dirk spied it, planted the sole of his shoe into the side of Marty’s face, forcing his cheek into the feces. “A whole new meaning for shitface,” he declared, standing triumphantly over the gangly goofy-faced Marty Loomis.
Laughter erupted from Dirk’s cronies gathered around. “Scarecrow’s a namby-pamby,” one of the pretty cheerleaders taunted, her long blonde hair flapping off her shoulder in the light breeze. Another burst of laughter, then, “Scarecrow’s a namby-pamby. Scarecrow’s a namby-pamby,” the group harassed in unison.
Holding up his hands in a gesture for the crowd to quiet, he gazed down at Marty, “Well, namby-pamby, let’s add Shitface to Scarecrow,” Dirk proclaimed with authority.<
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“Shitface Scarecrow’s a namby-pamby,” Dirk’s cheerleader girlfriend jeered. Again, the crowd laughed, chanted: “Shitface Scarecrow’s a namby-pamby. Shitface Scarecrow’s a namby-pamby....”
With dog poop smeared across his cheek, the foulness about to make him retch, Marty pathetically glanced up at the two blonde cheerleaders and Dirk’s best friend, a strapping wrestler, who were towering over him, laughing, pointing and repeating, Shitface Scarecrow’s a namby-pamby.
Finally the hecklers dashed across the lawn, cramming into Dirk’s precious Camaro. Marty knew better than to even attempt to push himself to his feet until the Camaro had burned rubber out of the parking lot, yet as he lay there, rage scalded his innards. The name Scarecrow was bad enough, but now Shitface Scarecrow? And why did they always have to rub it in about being a namby-pampy? Hate raced through his veins. Temples pulsed. Teeth ground so tightly part of a molar chipped. And his body quivered with such destructive ferocity it tipped near madness.
That’s it. No more namby-pamby. He seems to like stink, so let’s give him stink! A confident voice ordered in his head. It was strong. Powerful. Felt criminal ... and Marty liked it. No more namby-pamby. I can be your secret weapon, if you’ll just let me help you.
A grin drew at the corners of his thin lips.
Gather some stink bugs, put ‘em in his precious Camaro.
Over the next several days, just like the inner voice had suggested, Marty collected about fifty darkling beetles—the variety that pokes its butt in the air and emits a vile smell when feeling threatened and stinks even worse when smashed—and dumped them in Dirk’s Camaro.
Dirk blamed a rival high school for the rotten prank, but Mary knew better. His friend ... his badass alter ego named Butch had orchestrated revenge. And he didn’t stop there. Roofing nails placed in just the right spot under the tires of the parked Camaro caused flats. A few drops of Krazy glue on the dial of Dirk’s hall locker rallied outrage and hours of frustration for the smart aleck. A loogie hocked into the toe of the football star’s empty athletic shoe....
After a dozen vengeful pranks, and the timing of Dirk graduating early to take advantage of a sports scholarship, Triple B was arrested and sentenced to lock down deep within the confines of an obscure mental prison. For years, the key all but lost. Yet, thanks to the privacy of the man cave and the outside pressures of life, Butch had recently been paroled. Or, perhaps escaped. Regardless, Marty’s alter ego had been given a second chance.
Moments later Marty achieved sexual bliss, once again brought to fruition courtesy of the latest newspaper picture of her and strong leadership from Butch.
Never before had he satisfied himself with such visual savagery. It was a peek into another world. A dark, yet fantastically wonderful universe whose trappings deemed further exploration in the future.
Standing there, hand in his pants, the afterglow of gratification smothered his facial features. Opening his eyes, exasperation leeched his face. Ecstasy bled out by the dismal actuality of his wretched life. Tearing off a blue disposable cloth towel from the roll he kept close for cleanup, he wiped his hand on the square and dabbed himself off, tossing the bliss-cleansing rag in the wastebasket.
Gazing at the newspaper photo of Julia happily standing next to her soon-to-be husband, Marshall Watters, Triple B nudged a thought: Interesting, isn’t it, the similarities between handsome Dirk and his sexy cheerleader girlfriend?
Marty’s face illuminated scarlet with fury. Teeth clenched. Shit! Until right then, he hadn’t realized it, but it was true. Once again society’s darlings were laughing at him. It wasn’t right. Wasn’t fair. Why did the sexy rich woman and her herculean man have everything while he had nothing?
Zipping up his jeans, “Not right,” he snarled, smashing his fist onto the old wooden workbench. A variety of small hand tools momentarily danced from the pounding. A screwdriver rolled onto the grimy floor.
Nonchalantly he glanced over at the dusty Craftsman saw blade clock hanging on the rickety wooden plank wall: 8:22. Shit! Shit! Shit! Man cave time was up. Had to get back to the house. Had to get kids off to school. Had to care for his dying wife. Had to get back to his dreadful life....
Why not apply for a job at her company? Butch casually suggested. Surely a newspaper and printing business needs a cleanup crew. Might even have an opening. Never know unless you try.
Smacking his flat palm against his forehead, “Duh, that’s brilliant,” he uttered aloud. Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? His lips wiggled into a wavy smile. Could working for Julia prove to be the solution to all of his problems?
Of course Butch knew it would be and when the time was right, when Marty was ready to hear it and take action upon it, he’d reveal his ultimate plan.
Heated by the pathetic reality of his current dismal state of affairs, Marty’s entire being boiled in a mixture of intense anger and deep depression. A hint of black hope further fueled this volatile emotional potion to the brink of explosion. Something had to change. Needed to change. Was about to change.
And so the stage had been set for an insidious invasion of the mind, soon to prove even the most caring of family men could be nudged over the edge of sanity to plunge deep into the abyss of criminal lunacy.
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Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series) Page 46
