Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 74450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
A smattering of people milled about, some appearing under the influence of something—perhaps fentanyl. Litter lined the streets, and several of the yards looked unkempt. He killed his car lights and leaned back, relaxing to the sounds of ‘You Know What They Do to Guys Like Us in Prison’, by My Chemical Romance. Minutes passed.
His heartbeat calmed as the time neared. Moments later, he slipped on a fresh set of gloves, pulled up his face mask, blending in with the other masked people out there, and walked to the house, pizza box in hand. He made a little song of his knocking with his knuckles against the big off-white door.
“Who is it?” the guy inside the dwelling yelled.
“Wick’s Pizza!”
“I didn’t order no damn pizza,” the man hollered as he approached the door.
Heavy, slow footsteps ensued. He could see the shadow under the threshold, showing he was right there, looking through the peephole. Caspian smiled brightly beneath his sky-blue surgical mask. That would help turn the ends of his eyes up so they not only looked sparkling blue, but sincere. Truthful. Trustworthy. The door swung open and the big man stepped up to him.
“I ain’t order no pizza, man,” he stated again, holding onto his bottle of beer and rubbing his free hand over his protruding stomach.
“Well, is your address 1928 Dressor Street?” Caspian thumbed a piece of paper taped to the side of the box.
“Yeah… but like I said, it ain’t mine. You got the wrong place.”
“Well, looks like you get a free pizza then, my man, ’cause somebody ordered it, and I can’t take it back to the shop. It’ll just get trashed.”
The man’s scowl turned into a big grin as he opened the lid and eyed the large pepperoni masterpiece with extra cheese. “Well, I guess tonight is my lucky night.” He chuckled and took the offering. “My wife’s meatloaf sucks anyway.”
Caspian sniggered in response, thanked him kindly, then walked back to his car. When he got to the vehicle, he sat down and turned on the radio, listening to the static as his mind wandered. Then, he drove around the block a few times. He eventually parked down the street, his kit inside his jacket pocket—all of the special tools he needed for a special task.
When he returned to 1928 Dressor Street, he moseyed to the back of the brick house, jimmied the rickety back door open, and slipped inside. Sure as shit, there was Felson, sitting at the dining room table, foaming at the mouth, gasping for air, coughing all over the pizza. Caspian rounded the table and sat beside him. His jacket made a rustling noise as he got comfortable. The man tried to speak, to no avail. His eyes sheened over, turning pink, then red, and he shook as if he had Parkinson’s.
He grinned and patted the man’s slightly humped back.
“Felson, how ya doin’, you son of a bitch?” he whispered in his ear. “Oftentimes I’ll use a knife or gun, but with you, I needed to be a bit more discreet. These houses are too fuckin’ close together and you don’t ever go anywhere so I can corner you someplace quiet. I stick out too much in this neighborhood, too, so I needed a clean and fast solution. You might wonder why I’m here. Well, I’ll tell ya. ’Member back in 1998, you killed a young girl named Amelia? She was your neighbor.”
The man’s complexion drew ashen and his pale skin was now turning blue.
“You’d gotten obsessed wit’ her. She was only seventeen years old. She didn’t want you. You were a married guy with children. You couldn’t take no for an answer, so what did you do? Ya sexually assaulted her one day when her parents weren’t home and her brothers were in a different part of the house. Waited until she went down into the basement to do the laundry. You’d be watchin’ her… just like I’ve been watchin’ you.”
The fucker started gurgling and grasping for his throat.
“From the case details I got my hands on, I knew it had to be somebody close by. Someone who knew her schedule. You were the number one suspect but police couldn’t tie you to the crime. Well, that’s where I come in. See, I figured out your schedule, too—did a comparison from way back then. I got copies of your old timecards, things like that. I also saw all the times you called those folks’ house from your landline, breathin’ hard like some animal… sayin’ such disgusting shit to a young lady who wasn’t your girlfriend or wife. The police didn’t have that information, but after all of these years, a motherfucker like me can get that sort of data and then some. It’s amazing what people know when the price is right.
“Here’s a funny thing about that case, though: Amelia had some strange oil on her—motor oil. Nobody could figure that one out. See, I found out that back then, you used to do a lotta car repairs for your buddies ’round town. That oil had seeped under your nails and when you pressed her down as you were attacking her, you dug into her skin. The damn cops didn’t lift any fingerprints, but that’s okay. I’ve always been good at math. I can put two and two together. So much for no DNA, right? You washed her up a little after you strangled her, trying to cover your tracks. Wore a rubber, too. But that oil… that was all you. And here was the kicker: I found your collection of photos of her stuffed in your closet.”