Authors: James L. Conway
The Vest Pocket Colt .25, with its miniscule two and a quarter inch
barrel was designed to shoot at targets five to eight feet away. After
that, luck has as much to do with hitting a target as skill.
This was only the second time Blake had ever fired a weapon; the first
was high school when they took Adam’s father’s .44 Magnum to the city dump and
shot at rats, so his skill level was low. But Blake’s luck was good and
he hit his target.
Alice screamed as the bullet ripped into her shoulder, blood spurted as
the slug shredded her deltoid muscle, just missed the cephatic vein before nicking
her clavicle bone, tumbling through the trapezius muscle and bursting out of
her shoulder before finally plowing into the living room wall.
The force of the bullet hitting Alice spun her around, and her brain
was already calculating how she was going to survive a battle with a man with a
gun when she’s just got a small scalpel.
So she instinctively let the spin knock her off her feet and she tumbled
to the ground. There was no way for Blake to know exactly where he hit
her, Syd realized, so she shuddered once and then went still.
Dead still.
Blake stared at the lifeless body. God damn her, he thought.
He was counting on a lengthy interview to stitch together his
documentary. And her murder trial would have been the icing on the
cake. Fiery statements from the D.A. intercut with righteous indignation
from the defense. Mix in a few shots of the beautiful defendant and
you’ve got real drama. But now, all he’d have was a funeral.
Of course, a funeral makes for a much more definitive ending, and his own
role in the story had been enhanced. Enhanced big time, he suddenly
realized; he’s become the fucking star. After capturing the Lady in Red, he
had to fight it out with the desperate serial murderer, finally killing her
with her own weapon.
And then it hit him, documentary, hell! This should be a feature fucking
film. Someone sexy but deadly would play the Lady in Red: Angelina Jolie,
Scarlett Johansson, or maybe Keira Knightley. And an A-lister like Brad
Pitt or Matt Damon would play Blake.
He’d write and direct, the first time ever a victim/hero told his own
story on screen. What a publicity dream.
He looked at Alice’s body.
Did she just breathe?
He thought he saw some movement. He aimed the gun at her. He
should put a couple of more shots into her to make sure, he decided. He
centered the muzzle at the back of her head, tightened his finger on the
trigger and squeezed.
Then stopped.
The cops would be able to figure out the trajectory of the bullets,
determine that he was standing and she was on the ground. Realized he’d
shot a defenseless victim.
Not very heroic.
How would an audience feel watching Brad Pitt shoot the inert body of
Scarlett Johansson just to make sure she was dead?
They’d hate it. It seemed so cowardly.
But what if she was still alive? He was sure he saw her move.
Keeping the gun aimed at her, Blake slowly stepped toward the body.
When he reached her he saw a pool of blood gathering beneath her.
That’s good, he thought. But blood alone wasn’t enough to prove she
was dead. He nudged her stomach with his foot.
Alice’s right hand shot out, the scalpel slashing Blake’s ankle, severing
his Achilles tendon.
Blake’s leg collapsed. Furious he pulled the trigger, but too late,
his aim ruined by the fall. Three shots went harmlessly into the ceiling.
His back hit the ground first, followed by his head and gun hand.
The force of the impact popped the gun out of his grip and sent the Colt
skittering across the floor.
Alice pounced on him. She straddled his chest and began slashing
his face with the scalpel. Blood spurted as the tempered steel of the #10
blade sliced down his left cheek, up his right cheek, across his chin.
Blake screeched in pain. He looked into Alice’s maniacal face; she
was pure animal now desperately fighting for her survival.
In his periphery vision Blake could see the gun on the floor, eight or
nine feet away. He had to get her off him and reach the gun.
She slashed again, this time the knife sliced across his forehead,
opening a flap of skin and sending a river of blood into Blake’s eyes.
He let out a roar, placed his hand on her chest and shoved as hard as he
could. Alice fell back, tumbling off him. He was free.
Blake clambered toward the gun. His right leg was useless, so he
pulled himself across the floor with his hands as his blood drenched the floor.
He could hear Alice scrambling to her feet behind him. He reached
out, his fingertips touching the gun. Got you, he thought.
But as he tightened his grip on the Colt, Alice drove the scalpel through
the back of his hand pinning it to the floor.
He screamed in agony.
Alice plucked the gun off the floor, turned it on Blake. Blood
poured from the gashes in his face. He looked at her, terrified. “Don’t
shoot.”
Hate simmered off Alice. The rape was Blake’s idea. She’d
watched him
direct
her degradation. He was actually going to try
and use her rape to re-launch his movie career. And now he was begging
for mercy.
“I know people,” Blake pleaded. “I can help you get away, out of
the country with a new identity and plenty of money. Just please, don’t
shoot.”
Alice thought about it then slowly lowered the gun.
Unexpected hope filled Blake’s eyes.
And that’s when she shot him – right between those hope-filled
eyes.
Alice dug through the medicine cabinet in Blake’s bathroom. It
was a veritable drug store. Her bloodstained hands shuffled through
bottles of Xanax, Ativan and Valium. Depressed much, Blake, she
thought.
There were also bottles of Viagra and Cialis, for fun she assumed. There
were bottles of Vicodin and Percocet, no doubt for pain. She wasn’t
looking for pain pills, but she knew the dull pain in her shoulder would
detonate later into agony so she pocketed the Vicodin. There were bottles
of Ambien and Lunesta for sleep. There was also a bottle of Valtrex which
she knew treated herpes. No surprise there.
She pawed through a variety of drugs she never heard and didn’t care
about. What she wanted was an antiseptic, something to disinfect her
shoulder wound. And a couple of thick bandages.
Nothing more in the cabinet so she looked under the sink.
Bingo.
She pulled out a bottle of Betadine and a first aid kit with a variety of
bandages. She poured the Betadine onto a washcloth then applied it to the
entrance wound. She gasped and nearly collapsed as pain engulfed her.
She sat on the toilet, poured more Betadine onto the washcloth and using
the mirror to guide her, pressed the washcloth onto the exit wound. This
time a soft moan escaped from her lips as the pain crested quickly, then slowly
receded.
She ripped open one of the large bandages. She dribbled a little
Betadine onto the gauze then placed it over the entrance wound and pressed hard
attaching it. It stung like crazy but she was getting used to it.
Then she ripped open a second bandage, added a little antiseptic and, using the
mirror as a guide again, stuck it on. Okay, she thought. That
should stem the bleeding and take care of any infection.
She looked at herself in the mirror. Her white tube top was
drenched in blood. Some of it his, most of it hers. And blood was
splattered on her face and skin.
In fact, her blood was everywhere. In the living room, dripped on
the floor all the way into the bathroom and now all over the sink, floor, and
soaked into the washcloth.
There would be no way to clean up this crime scene. The cops were
sure to get her DNA this time. But hell, they’ve got her picture, and
once they connect Blake, Colin, Adam and Zachary Stone, they’ll know who she
is. And until an hour ago she wouldn’t have cared. She wanted to
kill four men and she’d done it. The police can pick her up, big
deal. Thanks to the Big C she wouldn’t live long enough to stand trial.
But now everything had changed. One more man had to die.
She peeled off the tube top, dropped it to the floor. She grabbed a
fresh washcloth, ran it under warm water and started cleaning herself up.
She’d had weeks to prepare for her attack on Blake, Colin, Adam and Stone.
She’d researched each one, knew where they lived, worked, ate, drank. She
planned their executions down to the tiniest detail.
She wouldn’t have that luxury with her next victim. The cops would
be on her tail. The one advantage she had is they would have no idea who
she was after.
Alice grabbed a shirt out of Blake’s closet, a tan Tommy Bahama luau
shirt that was too big for her, but the shirt tails covered her bloodstained skirt.
Time was the issue now. She had very little of it. Once the
cops talked to her parents, they’d find out about her car and apartment and it
wouldn’t take too much digging to find out where she lives. So Alice had
to move. Fast.
And she’d need more money, enough for a cheap hotel and food for a week
or two. She had about twenty two hundred, which would be cutting things
close. She needed more.
She searched Blake’s bureau looking for cash or his wallet. Found
nothing. It must be on him. So she went back into the living
room. She had a horror movie fantasy for an instant that she’d walk into
the living room and he’d be gone, and then suddenly appear behind her.
But he lay dead on the floor.
Alice knelt down, patted his pants pockets, felt the wallet in back and
fished it out.
Nine hundred and twenty-three dollars. Not bad. She took the
money, dropped the wallet onto his chest.
Next she went back into the office. She wanted the video of her
rape.
At some point she’d make sure the cops got a copy. She wanted the
world to know exactly what happened to her. She wanted the world to know
that those scumbags got just what was coming to them.
But not yet. If the cops saw the tape, they’d see the fourth man
and figure out what she was up to. But once he was dead, she’d make sure Blake’s
masterpiece got a worldwide release.
While Alice watched the video, Blake controlled it with a remote so she
didn’t know where the tape itself was. She searched the bookcases found a
stack of components: receiver, DVD player, cable box. No VHS
player. The recording was made on a video camera so there should have
been a tape – unless he burned it to a DVD. She hit open on the DVD
player and a disk slid out. It had a white paper label with the title
High
School Pool Party
scrawled on it.
Alice grabbed it, found an empty plastic DVD case and stuck it
inside. Then she noticed the video camera in the corner of the
room. The one Blake used to record her reactions as she watched the rape.
The red light was still on. It was still recording.
She walked to the camera, looked at the small LCD monitor on the
back. The camera was aimed at the middle of the room where the Lady in
Red had been sitting, but it also saw through the door into the living room and
Blake’s dead body was on the right hand side of the frame.
The camera had recorded their fight, her attacking him in the office, his
shooting her in the living room and their final battle.
Alice laughed. It would have been incredible footage for his
documentary. Not the ending Blake had in mind, though. Thank God.
She hit the button to stop recording. Found the button to
open the camera and reached for the tape – then hesitated.
The tape showed her bound hand and foot, held captive by Blake Hunter.
It showed her fighting to free herself, getting shot by Blake before finally
overpowering him.
She was clearly the victim here simply defending herself. The
police should see that. Realize she wasn’t just a cold-blooded killer.
She cued it to the beginning of her tripping Blake in the office and struggling
to get out of the handcuffs.
Then she remembered it also showed her shooting Blake in the face after
he’d begged for mercy. Maybe she better take it after all. Alice
grabbed the tape.
She was moving quickly now. She grabbed her purse and dropped in the
DVD and tape. She did a final look around the room to see if she’d
forgotten anything. Her eyes alighted on Blake’s still camera.
He’d taken those shots of her in the sunset.
She considered taking the camera then decided the cops already had those
crappy surveillance photos of her; might as well let them have a couple of
glamour shots.
She stepped over Blake’s body and then stopped. If there was going
to be a fifth victim, she needed to finish this crime scene. After all,
she had her legacy to think about.