“Stop it!” he told himself. “Get a grip.”
But that wasn’t an easy thing to do, not when every little spasm sent him running for the nitro. Forget running—Graham patted a small bulge in his pants pocket. That little brown bottle never left his side. He fingered a silver clasp with the letter G engraved upon its face, hanging from a chain around his neck. The oval container held a picture of Susan, and a single nitroglycerin tablet. Susan had given it to him so he wouldn’t have to walk around with that bottle. But he still could not bear to leave the bottle at home. No way could he ever do that. Not with the big 1.5 hanging over his head.
The light changed to green and Graham released the clasp. He pulled forward, picking up his pace until the speedometer read forty-five. For a brief moment he glanced down at the radio, turned it on and a wailing guitar screamed at him. “Jesus,” he said, laughing at the irony that the kind of music the boy he had once been craved, was now just a bunch of garbled nonsense the man he had become could no longer tolerate. Graham punched the CD button. “Ah,” he said, smiling as an upbeat Spanish guitar instrumental filled the vehicle, and a football smacked the windshield.
Graham’s heart lurched; all his breath rushed out and he stomped the brake pedal, sending the Jeep into a howling sideways skid, rubber smoking against the asphalt until the rear tires struck the curb and a pickup truck swerved around him, barely missing the Jeep’s front end. He looked in the mirror, eyes bulging, all the color seeming to have drained from his face, the throbbing blue vein lining his temple looking like it could burst at any moment as he reached a shaking hand up to his neck, patting around until he located the clasp.
“You all right, mister?”
Graham turned to see a young child, a boy with red hair and freckles standing next to the passenger window.
“I’m sorry, mister. Tommy kicked the ball and it just sailed right outa the park.”
“I’m fine,” Graham muttered, even though the kid probably couldn’t hear him through the closed window. The shaken writer held a tentative hand in the air, waving it to let the boy know that all was well—no harm no foul, but traffic had cleared, leaving the road empty, and the child had already run back into the street to scoop up the football and trot off to the park.
Graham took a calming breath and sat back in his seat. It’s okay, he told himself, as he flicked the clasp away, took his foot off the brake and pulled away from the curb.
Just an accident. Nothing to get worked up about.
Chapter Ten
Red33 punched the power button on his computer. A couple of beeps later, white text appeared on a black background. He drummed his fingers on the desktop, waiting for the operating system’s logo to appear, clicked his logon and the computer chimed. Red lifted his arms in the air and arched his spine, groaned and stretched and sat back in his plush leather office chair, whose upholstery felt cool upon his bare back. Red had not been happy to see the Hey Douche Bag subject line in Bryan Kenney’s email last night. Even though he had known something like this was coming, he sure as hell wasn’t happy after having read the message the email contained. He didn’t understand. After all, they had been communicating. Kenney had thanked him for his support, had even offered a word or two of advice to Red. Now look at him: Mr. Fucking Know It All. What was wrong with that guy, anyway? Did he really think he was so good that he couldn’t use a little constructive criticism? Red didn’t know what his problem was. But he did know one thing: Bryan Kenney had picked the wrong guy to fuck with.
He had wanted to reply last night, tell him just what he thought about his snide little message, but he didn’t. He’d slept on it because he’d wanted his response to be well thought out. Now he was glad he’d waited. The rest had done him good. All the stress and strain and nervous tension was gone, drifted away in the dark of night. Now maybe he wouldn’t sound like a maniac.
Yawning, Red looked up at a wall-mounted clock, surprised to see that he had slept most of the day. He sat up, slid his mouse across its blood-red pad, and then double-clicked his Internet Explorer icon. He tilted his head to the side until the joints in his neck popped, and then checked his emails. Seven new messages appeared on his screen. Red ignored them all and went straight to the missive that had sent him out last night in a fit of rage, eyes narrowing as he scanned through the text:
Hey, dipshit,
How in the fuck do you think a moron like you could edit “my” work? That “is” what you call those bullshit comments you highlighted throughout my text, isn’t it? Listen up, pal. To edit implies that you know how to write, but it is quite obvious from reading your hilarious fucking piece of shit tale…(hilarious as in “laughable” as in a friggin’ kindergartner could’ve done better than that shit) that you are clueless when it comes to: grammar, pacing, sentence structure, punctuation—spelling, for Christ’s sake. How the fuck do you have so many misspelled words, anyway? Ever heard of spell check?????
Your story, Nut Case, was the silliest piece of shit I’ve ever had to endure. NUT CASE?!!! Are you fucking kidding me? Not only is the storyline ridiculous, but your “nutty” serial killer is about the lamest/tamest/ain’t-gotta-fucking-brainest son of a bitch I’ve ever heard of. He stabs and blood “leaks” out of his victim, shoots and blood “drips”, slashes and blood “squirts”…Hey moron, get a clue. Blood doesn’t leak, drip and squirt. It explodes, splatters and coagulates
Red: I tried to be nice to you, but you are either too dumb, or too fucking stubborn to take a hint. You are not my colleague. You are not my friend.
Do not fucking contact me again.
Sin-fucking-cerely,
Bryan Kenney.
Red looked away from his monitor, at his hands that had clenched into fists during Bryan’s vicious attack. And why? For what? Do a guy a good turn and what does it get you? A swift kick in the pearly whites. You’d think someone like that would remember where they came from, remember the people who’d helped him along the way and pay it forward. But nooo, not Mr. Big Shot I’ve Been Published And You Haven’t Horror Writer. That cocksucker couldn’t be bothered to help anybody.
Probably can’t stand the competition.
Fuck that poser. What did he know, anyway? So he’s got a book or two on the market. Big fucking deal.
Probably sucked somebody off to get it published!
He opened his fists, rubbed his palms together, and then ran his right hand down the chair’s armrest. The leather felt good against his skin, smooth and soothing to the touch. He stared at the forty-two inch flat panel monitor, sighed and shook his head. All the support he had given Bryan, all the compliments he’d tossed his way over at HorrorFan. And now this. All he wanted was a little recognition, a little acknowledgement from his peer, a helping hand. And what did he get? A great big Fuck You from a guy sucking hind tit at the bottom of the totem pole.
Red looked around the room. Everything in it was expensive: his solid oak desk, the polished mahogany paneling and teak wood flooring. He had all the toys: cars and boats, jewelry; damn near every electronic gadget known to man: Home Theater, speakers inside the walls. Even the signed and lettered first edition novels lining his shelves were expensive.
Got all three of that insolent cocksucker’s books, too!
Navigating his way to the HorrorFan message board, he scrolled down to the Where is Scary Mary post, clicked the thread and saw that five people had responded. Scary Mary, the cunt who couldn’t be bothered to read the story he’d published at Dark Harvest. ‘Sorry,’ she’d said, ‘I don’t read stuff off the Internet.’ Sure she didn’t. She could kiss Kenney’s ass every time he showed up, offer to suck goddamn Greystone off to get a fucking autograph, but she wouldn’t piss on Red33 if he was on fire. Red clicked the reply button, and typed in, Maybe she’ll show up at Horrorcon. Then he added a big fat smiley face :o) and posted the message.
He pushed away from the desk, stood up and walked naked across the room. Cold air blowing from the air conditioner duct
s caressed his body as he stood in front of a bookshelf built into the right wall of his study. Although nearly every horror novel ever written had passed through this room at one time or another, only the best were allowed to stay. Red brushed his fingertips over the spines: Laymon, Keene, Kenney, King, Koontz. He ran his hand back to Blood Bath and drew the book from the shelf.
“I don’t think he deserves to keep company with these gentlemen anymore, do you?” he said, smiling at the muffled response.
He turned, still smiling, and walked over to a video camera mounted on a tripod in the middle of the room, flicked it on, and said, “What was that?”
A woman sat naked on the far side of the room, her wrists cuffed to the wooden arms of the chair she cowered in; another pair of handcuffs held her legs in place. Her ankles were raw, the skin, shredded and cut. A carved, wooden-handled hunting knife lay on a thick blanket of plastic sheeting spread out beneath her. Blood trickling down her wrists dripped onto the plastic. She was bruised and battered, one puffy, bloodshot eye swollen nearly shut from the beating he had given her before crawling into bed this morning—the other, wide open, darted wildly back and forth. She squirmed in her seat and rocked back and forth, but the wood was thick, and the heavy chair wouldn’t budge.
Red crossed the room and grabbed a handful of her short black hair. “If I take off the gag will you be quiet?”
She nodded her head.
“Will you blow me?”
“essss, essss,” she said through the three-inch wide strip of duct tape stretched across her mouth.
He opened the novel, angling it so she could see Bryan Kenney’s face on the inside cover. “Bet you’d like to kick his ass right about now,” he said.
“ease!”
He closed the book and read the blurb: “In Kenney’s world, blood doesn’t drip; it explodes, splatters and coagulates.”
“ease…” Tears ran from her eyes—
“Splatters and coagulates!”
—down her cheeks and across the gag.
“And he called me a moron.”
Sobbing now, “ease…ease op!”
He stooped down and picked up the knife.
“Unfucking believable,” he said, as she rocked back and forth in the chair, her head shaking, her wrists, her whole body.
Red ran a finger down the long, serrated blade. “Gritty, realistic images that shock the senses,” he sneered.
Metal cuffs rattled the chair as she squealed.
“I’ll show you some gritty fucking images!”
“Nooo! God, nooo!”
Red33 grabbed a nipple between his thumb and index finger, pinched it and the woman moaned, sliced if off and she shrieked against the duct tape. He swung his arm down and buried the blade in the meaty base of her breast, and started sawing.
Chapter Eleven
Graham took his wife’s advice. He rolled down his windows and traveled aimlessly through the hill and dale of Richmond, Virginia. Orange and brown leaves—some tinted red and gold—painted the trees dotting the landscape. The rural sights and sounds were a calming influence. The smell of hay and freshly mown grass permeated the air as he glanced down at his watch, pleasantly surprised to find that, nearly an hour away from home, he was relatively unscathed. No wear or tear from that mess at the park. He headed into the city, down a four-lane highway until he spotted a grocery store. Once inside, he fished Susan’s list from his right front pocket. Walking the aisles, he never once thought about his heart or his father, or about his unfinished novel. He was just an average everyday shopper, picking up a few items for his wife.
In the parking lot, he loaded plastic bags into the back of the Jeep, culled an apple from his purchases, and then climbed into the driver’s seat and slammed the open door shut. He started the motor and backed up, and then drove through the parking lot. He’d grown tired of the Rippingtons CD, so he punched the stereo’s FM button, drawing forth a shrieking Ted Nugent. Graham smiled and shook his head. He glanced down at the radio and pulled onto the highway, and heard the screeching of tires, a horn blaring as his eyes shot up to the rearview mirror to find a bearded giant in a red Dodge Ram scowling and shaking a fist out his window. He had a John Deere cap on his head, and he looked madder than hell.
Graham didn’t know what to do. He wanted to apologize, to tell the man he was sorry, that he hadn’t seen him. He punched the radio off, quickly lifting a hand as he smiled and waved, but the scowling redneck hurled a beer bottle out the window that shattered beside the Jeep’s front tire.
Graham swerved into the right lane, cutting off yet another car. Another horn bleated as he hung a right at the intersection, stomped the gas pedal and raced through the next set of crossroads. Heart hammering in his chest, he pulled down a side street, and then stopped in front of a row of dilapidated buildings and killed the engine. He took a couple of deep breaths and touched the silver safety blanket dangling from his neck. Then he looked into the rearview mirror until he was satisfied no one had followed, wondering what he would’ve done if someone had.
By now the pickup would be well up the road.
Graham fired up the Jeep and pulled away from the curb, and found his way back to the highway. From there he retraced his route back to the interstate, back across the four-lane bridge spanning the James River. He drove through a green light, and then another. Minutes later he pulled up in the left-hand lane, behind a few cars that had stopped at a red light. His breathing was calm and relaxed, his pulse rate seemingly back to normal.
When the angry redneck threw the bottle, Graham panicked. But somehow he’d gotten away. If this had happened a couple of months ago, the stress would have killed him.
Not today!
“I really must be better,” he muttered.
“Hey!”
A door slammed shut and Graham looked into his rearview mirror to see the redneck step away from his pickup, which was stopped a few cars behind him.
He was huge, and angry, shouting, “You son of a bitch!” as he moved fast between the line of cars.
Heading straight for Graham.
Graham felt weightless. He wanted to pull around the traffic, escape like he had back in the city, but he was too close to the car in front of him, and he couldn’t seem to break the clutching grip his hands had on the steering wheel.
The huge, seething redneck kicked Graham’s Jeep, shattering the red-and-white plastic taillight cover onto the roadway. And now Graham felt like a blind man, helplessly tumbling end over end into a bottomless pit of despair. The bearded giant stepped behind the Jeep. Pointing a finger at Graham, he shouted, “I’m gonna kick your fucking ass!”
Graham shifted into reverse and the Jeep lurched backward, the engine stalling as he pinned the howling man against a pickup truck; the man screaming and beating his hands against the top of the Jeep, crying out to God to help him as Graham slammed the stick into neutral—he tried starting the engine but the ignition wouldn’t catch. Tried again and the guy behind him got out of his truck, and other people began opening doors and stepping out onto the roadway, too.
The Jeep started and Graham put the car into gear. He cut the wheel sharp and floored the gas pedal, tires shrieking against the pavement as he shot into the empty oncoming lane, leaving the giant collapsing to the asphalt, screaming and crying and clutching his legs.
Graham, who had raced through the red light on the wrong side of the road, swerved back into the southbound lane. Gas pedal still mashed to the floor, he left the line of stopped traffic far behind him. He had backed into a man and left him squirming on the pavement. Any minute now the sirens would start. Red and blue police lights would force him off the road and he’d be led away in handcuffs. Susan would wonder where he was. She’d turn on the evening news, and there he’d be. Then the call would come, informing her that Graham Greystone had fallen down dead in his cell.
Right after a gang of angry rednecks finished raping him!
Graham could barely draw a breath. H
is hands were shaking, his heart thumping against his ribs. He could actually hear the blood pounding through his temples. He reached a hand up to his hanging clasp. Snapping it open with his thumb and index finger sent a tiny white pill falling onto his lap, disappearing between his legs as Graham flew down the highway, eyes darting back and forth between road and rearview as he passed the farmhouses and the lush rolling hills of Chesterfield County without even noticing them. He blew by a car, and then another, and then looked down at the speedometer. He was going a hundred miles an hour. He eased off the gas, slowing until the needle fell back to sixty. The bottle of nitro pills was in his front pocket, but he wasn’t about to try fishing it out. Start fiddling around with that, the next thing you know the Jeep’s tumbling end over end down a grassy embankment.
He slowed down and turned right onto Chesterton Drive. A couple of blocks later he was back on Parrish Avenue, heading for Chimley Park. He’d be home soon and he had to figure out how he was going to handle the situation. There’d be cops, and news reports describing his Jeep—he’d heard something break when that asshole kicked it. They’d be looking for a busted taillight or a dented fender.
God damn it, I need a cigarette!
Graham looked at his watch. It was four-thirty. He’d have to keep Susan away from the TV tonight. But how? Take her out to dinner? No good. He needed to keep the Jeep under wraps. Dig out the manuscript and read it to her, ask her what she thinks, then fuck the shit out of her. She’ll like that. Bingo! Good old Graham, back in action.
What about the cops? He’ll go crazy wondering if they’re about to show up, have a frigging heart attack if they do; the big one... 1.5. What if he’s not here? That’s it! Horrorcon. He can fly down tomorrow. Why not? It’s just one day early. Maybe he’ll run into Scary Mary. Give her a good fucking, too!
Killercon Page 6
