•
I was up early the next morning. The freeway was packed but I eventually made way to the hallowed ground known as Grosse Pointe. I swung my rental car onto Lakeshore Drive, and when I got to the Grosse Pointe Yacht Club, turned left and cruised north along Lakeshore Drive. I caught flashes of the lake in between the pine trees, circular drives and mansions with their security gates. When I came to one of the biggest homes on the strip, I immediately saw the mailbox, which was a miniature replica of the huge home. I drove by slowly and took in the monstrosity. I’d read that it was nearly forty thousand square feet, with fifteen bedrooms and twenty or so bathrooms. When I saw it, the only doubt I had about the numbers was that someone might have underestimated.
•
It took me the better part of two weeks, which included lengthy staring sessions at aerial photos of the mansion and its grounds. There had also been dozens of articles written about the construction of the home, including plenty of photos. I also hacked into the home’s security center and downloaded everything I would need.
My preparations included a dry run and an unsupervised, unauthorized tour of the place. When I went back for the last time, I brought my equipment with me. I utilized the blind spots in the security camera angles, keyed in the alarm code and made my way inside. The security personnel were stationed at specific posts, including the exterior gate, and a small building just off the main house where another guard monitored the security cameras.
I went to the study, where an interview in one of the local business magazines had been conducted. The interviewer had marveled at the design of the space, stating that it was more of an art gallery than an office. I had to agree. It was two stories and the upper floor had a handrail that extended out over the lower level. I found what I needed, pulled a chair over to where I wanted to sit. And then I waited.
•
She walked in with a cup of tea and a cell phone. The phone was pressed to her ear, and she sat down behind the desk, which was situated near the front of the room. It was a nightly ritual for her. In several magazine pieces, she had described her routine of logging into the company’s stock portfolio every evening and studying the day’s gains or losses. She said it gave her comfort. That it helped her sleep better.
•
“Don’t bother hitting the panic button,” I told her. She looked up at me, not exactly fear in her eyes, but annoyance. And recognition. The phone was on the top of her desk. I knew she had a Bluetooth earpiece but it wasn’t in. And I knew she wasn’t on speakerphone. The call button, wired into the surface of the desk, was now dead.
“I thought you were supposed to be the smart one,” she said. The funny thing about people like Victoria Kuchin was that when they had absolute power, they rarely had to hide anything. If they wanted to fuck you over, they just did. No obfuscation needed.
I reached over the desk, took her phone and slid it across the hardwood floor into a darkened corner.
“I came here to get my brother,” I said, and gestured to the canvas I had taken from the wall and leaned against the edge of her half-acre desk. She didn’t even glance down at it.
“Well, you don’t appear deranged,” she said. “So you must be on drugs now, too?”
“DeVoss had fifty grand in cash, Victoria,” I said. “There were seven victims, but only six canvases in his studio. Which meant he’d only sold one painting. And Joe wasn’t homeless like the others. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I was.”
“Convinced?” she said. A sneer on her face. “Of what? That your brother was a worthless asshole who ruined people’s lives? Because that’s what he was.”
I shook my head. “I know what you did, Victoria. The cops don’t, but I do.”
Her face was a smear of white against the dark wood behind her. “When I OD’d, it literally killed my father,” she said. “When I finally got clean, the first thing I found out was that the old man was dead. It took me ten years to put my life together. Your brother killed my father. He got what he had coming.”
I nodded.
“I figured that,” I said. “When I realized Joe wasn’t another one of DeVoss’s random victims.”
She looked at me, pure, raw hatred on her Botoxed, heavily scalpeled face.
“I just had to think about it,” I said. “And when I did, I realized that someone hadn’t bought that painting of Joe. Someone had commissioned it.”
Her expression didn’t change. I gestured at the few hundred pieces of art around the room. “Your reputation as a serious art collector is well-known, Victoria. I’m sure your artistic connections told you about the nutcase in Detroit making Jackson Pollack splatter paintings with a shotgun and some poor, homeless bastards. Ruining Joe’s career wasn’t enough for you, it never had been. You wanted him dead, and a piece of him hanging on your wall. Like a trophy, right?”
She laughed then. And on her face, the bleached and polished teeth stood out like a death mask.
It was the first time I’d ever hit a woman in my life. I threw the punch without a thought in my head. It was pure, unconscious, and the only time in my life I experienced what it must have felt like to Joe when he threw a baseball. It was a perfect strike, right on the point of her chin. She flew off the chair and slumped against the mahogany paneled wall. I went to the side of the desk, pulled the canvas aside and lifted the duffel bag I’d brought. I pulled out the rope and the camera and got to work.
•
I drove north along Jefferson, until I got to the first public beach access. I grabbed the canvas and a few items from the duffel bag. I walked down to the shoreline, found a small jumble of rocks and set the canvas on top. I squirted some lighter fluid on it and tossed a match into the middle. The canvas and wood stretcher were immediately engulfed in flames. I sat on a fallen log and watched the last bit of my brother go up in smoke. It took another few minutes for it all to burn down to nothing.
•
The suicide of Victoria Kuchin made the sports page of the Los Angeles Times. I skimmed the article when I grabbed a coffee from my favorite coffee bar on Main Street in Venice, a stone’s throw from my condo. It appeared that the heiress had never really gotten over her various addictions, and she’d been found in her study where she’d hung herself after shooting up with heroin. I left the article in the coffee shop and walked out into the California sunshine and smelled the damp, salty ocean air.
I walked a few blocks up the street until I came to the shop. It was a small operation, known for their exacting standards and high prices. I picked up my order, which was quite large, and went back to my place.
•
I ripped the brown paper from the framed photograph, and found the hanging wire on its back. I went over to the space I’d cleared on my wall, just to the left of the picture window looking out over the Pacific. I hung the framed photograph there. It looked good. It was a black-and-white shot, a bit abstract, but one could vaguely make out a form that looked somewhat human. The figure appeared to be hanging, almost twisting slightly.
I made sure the photo and its heavy frame were hung perfectly straight. Then I sat down, looked at the photograph, and looked back out at the water. This was my favorite place in the world. It was where I loved to sit and think, and where I would always remember my brother as he was when he was playing. Smooth, carefree, living life like a cleanly hit ball soaring into the blue sky, unaware and unconcerned with the completion of any predestined arc.
THE END
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THE KILLING LEAGUE
by
Dani Amore
“The mass murderer wants to out compete previous killers
and become the greatest murderer in history.”
-Paul Hannig, Ph.D., Profile of a Mass Murderer
“Men are by nature highly territorial, mutually competitive killers.”
-Dr. William Wilkie, consultant psychiatrist and author
The forest glowed in the dark, faint streams of moonlight ignited patches of steamy fog. The land seemed angry, seething in the cool of the night.
Nicole Candela's breath came much faster than the pulsating night breeze. Her eyes, big and blue, were wide with terror. Her hair was wet and wild, matted down in great jagged strips. Blood streaked her cheeks, forcing her beauty to teasingly appear through distinct slashes.
"One way or another-" a voice sang from behind her.
Nicole's breath caught in her throat. But her feet carried on. Running. Escaping. Desperately trying to put distance between life ahead and the nightmare behind.
"I’m gonna find ya-" the voice continued.
Nicole turned and ran deeper into the forest. A steel cuff on her left ankle bit into the flesh of her leg, its edges already bloody.
"...I’m gonna get ya get ya get ya get ya-" the voice taunted her from behind.
Nicole's feet flew as fast as her remaining energy could propel them.
From deep within her chest came a great, wracking moan.
Nicole ran, but her breath went faster than her legs. They felt like nothing, like they were a part of someone else's body. She saw the forest floor rise and fall before her. It was like being a captive passenger on a ship, unable to change her view of the horizon as it surged up and down in the distance.
Her feet tangled and she fell. The ground banged into her chest, hard and unmoving. With a low, unnatural moan emerging from her throat, she managed to get back on her feet.
Nicole started off toward the clearing ahead, her run looking more like a stagger. Hope flickered across her face. Maybe on the other side of the clearing there would be a road or a neighboring cabin. Someone. Anyone. She knew it was that blind hope, the refusal to give up, that allowed her to still be alive.
She lowered her head, building her courage for one more charge.
Five yards from the clearing, she tripped over a wire strung across the dim path. She heard a quick high whistle and then a crude punji stick lashed out and buried itself into her thigh with a soft thud.
"...ooh, that had to hurt!" the voice from behind her said, carried with a triumphant tone that reverberated around the clearing.
Nicole screamed and fell to the ground. She tried to crawl, pulling the ground apart, her nails digging trenches in the soft earth.
She got as far as the edge of the clearing.
A man appeared at the other end of the forest opening. He had dark, curly hair. Jeans. Chuck Taylor tennis shoes and a dark blue hooded sweatshirt. Nicole thought for a moment that he looked like a high school kid on his way home from track practice. But the large, gleaming knife in his hand shattered the image. She stared at his plain face, into the eyes of insanity and violence.
"You did so well, Nicole," he said, his voice soft and gentle.
Nicole sobbed in response.
"The way you broke out of my improvised holding cell was really quite ingenious,” he said. His voice was high-pitched, almost girlish, but calm and controlled, as if he had been out on a leisurely stroll. “I’ll have to do a little remodeling now, before my next guest arrives. But that shouldn’t be a problem, I'm pretty handy."
Nicole thought about her escape. It had been a miracle really. After hours pulling and twisting in her leather restraints, she had dislocated her shoulder and been able to perform an agonizing escape from her bonds.
"Why?" Nicole said. She knew she was going to die. She realized it with a sickness that invaded every pore of her body. But even if she couldn’t stop it, maybe she could understand it.
The man walked closer to her, squatted down in front of her, but far enough away to avoid any sudden attack.
"Why you?" he said. Nicole was close enough to see the slight sheen of sweat on his pale, pasty skin. So maybe he had exerted himself a little bit. She felt a small surge of pride. Yeah, he might kill her, but at least she’d fought.
"You were blessed with an unfortunate DNA sequence, honey,” he said. “It gave you long blonde hair, big blue eyes, and the kind of body that, well, makes my privates all tingly."
Nicole looked into his eyes. There was nothing there. No feeling. No soul. Nothing.