Velocity: ExcerptVelocity PART 1 Old
Tannery District
He was not going to kill her immediately.
No—if there was one thing he had learned, it was to savor the moment, to
be deliberate and purposeful. Like a predator in the wild, he would
waste no energy. He needed to be careful, efficient, and resourceful.
And above all, he needed to be patient.
That’s what he was now: a hunter who satisfied his
hunger by feeding on others.
He sat alone in the dark parking lot, drumming his
fingers on the dashboard, shifting positions in the seat.
Talk radio hosts babbled on in the background, but he remained focused
on his task. Watching. Waiting.
That’s why he chose the Lonely Echo bar. Located in
downtown Napa, the old Tannery District sat tucked
away in an area devoid of scenic mountain views, posh wineries, or
pampering bed-and-breakfasts.
That meant no tourists. And
that
meant city planners had little incentive to expend valuable resources attempting to
polish a hidden, unsightly flaw on the nation’s crown jewel.
Drugs, alcohol, sex, and prostitution were in
abundant supply—and in strong demand. While the valley’s
profit-driving centers blossomed over the past two decades, the district
had become an overlooked pimple slowly filling with pus. Ideal for his needs.
His eyes prowled the parking
lot, watching people enter and leave the bar. With only a single light
by the building’s front door and one overhanging the quiet side street,
he would be able to operate with relative impunity to roaming eyes—or
mobile phone video cameras. With such scarce illumination, neither was
much of a threat.
But it didn’t matter: during the hours he’d sat in
his minivan, no one had approached to ask him who he was. No one
had even given him a glance, let alone a second look. A few women had
left the bar, but they walked in pairs, making his approach extremely
difficult, if not impossible.
The long wait had given him a chance to reflect on
what had brought him to this moment: since childhood,
strange, misplaced feelings had stirred him, but he hadn’t known how to
channel or utilize them. As he got older, although those urges
persisted, the fear of making a mistake—shackling him with a very, very
long prison sentence—held him back.
But given the right direction and tutelage, those
needs took on substance, purpose, and direction. He was no longer
fearful of failing. The only question was, could he
do it?
Could he kill?
The body that now lay in the shed in his yard was
proof that he could do it, and do it well.
But killing a
woman.
He grinned at the thought. He was a virgin again, about to do it with a member of the
opposite sex for the first time. Just like when he was a teen, his
nerves were on edge, the fluttering in his stomach constant. Yet this
was different. He was not going to chicken out like that time all those
years ago. He was ready now. His first kill, waiting for him back home,
provided all the proof he needed.
“I told you my name before,” she said, running the
words together. “Don’t you remember?” She scooped up the
photo of her son and waved it at him. “My son. Remember me telling you?
About him? You were all interested before. When you wanted a nice tip.
Now, you’re all like, get out of my fucking place.” When the bartender
failed to react, she wagged a finger at him. “You’re not a very nice
man, Kevinnnn.” She drew out the last letter as if she were a scratched
CD stuck on a note.
Kevin shook his head, tossed down his wet rag, then
turned away.
A natural redhead whose hair sprouted from her scalp
like weeds, the woman pushed back from the bar
and wobbled as she sought enough balance to turn and walk out. She scrunched
her face into a scowl directed at Kevin, then slid off the stool.
The woman swayed and groped for the steadying
assistance of chair backs as she steered herself sloppily
toward, and through, the front door. The painful brightness of a
spotlight mounted along the eave blasted her eyes. She waved a hand to
shoo away the glare.
Her gait stuttered, stopped, then restarted and
stuttered again. Drunk, not oriented to her surroundings.
He could not have ordered up a more perfect dish if
he had spent hours searching for the recipe.
Ahead, a man was approaching, headed toward the bar.
“He’s mean,” she said to him. “Kevin is. He’ll take your
money, then kick you out.” That’s what
he did to me. Kicked me out.
As she passed him, something clamped against her
mouth—grabbed her from behind—squeezed and—
Can’t breathe.
Gasp—Scream!—can’t.
Heavy. So—tired. Go to
sleep. Sleep.
Sleep
. . .
THE REDHEAD’S MUFFLED SCREAM
did nothing but fill her lungs with a dose of anesthesia. Seconds later, she slumped
against the man’s body. He moved beside her, then twisted his neck to
look over his shoulder, canvassing the parking lot to make sure no one
had been watching.
The bar door flew open and a bearded man in jeans and
flannel shirt ambled out. He stopped, put a cigarette and
lighter to his mouth, then cupped it. As he puffed hard, the smoke
exploding away from his face in a dense cloud, his eyes found the man.
“Everything okay?” he asked, squinting into the darkness.
“I saw,” the witness said in a graveled voice.
“Bartender sent her on her way. Need some help?”
“Nah, I got it. Just glad I found her. Been looking for two
hours.
But—good boyfriend, that’s what
I do, you know? One in the goddamn morning. Unfucking believable. Not
sure it’s worth it, if you know what I mean.” He shook his head, turned
away, and walked a few more steps, ready to drop and run should the
witness persist in his questioning—or pull out a cell phone.
Since no one knew which car was his, if he needed to
bolt he had time to circle back later and pick it up. Or
he would leave it. It was untraceable to him, that much he’d planned in
advance. If it was safer to abandon it, that’s what he would do. He was
prepared for that. He was
The flannel-shirted witness glanced back twice as he
walked toward his pickup, then unlocked it and ducked
inside. The dome light flickered on, then extinguished as the door
slammed shut. His brake lights brightened, and a puff of gray exhaust
burst from the tailpipe.
He shifted the woman’s unconscious weight and wrapped
her arm around his neck. He walked slowly, waiting
for the man’s truck to move out of the lot. Then, with a flick of his
free hand, he slid open the minivan door. After another quick look over
his shoulder—all was quiet—he tossed her inside like a sack of garbage.
AS HE DROVE AWAY,
careful to maintain the speed limit, he swung his head around to look at his quarry. The woman was
splayed on the floor directly behind him. He couldn’t see her face, but
her torso and legs were visible.
And then she moaned.
“What the fuck? I gave you enough to keep you down
for at least twenty minutes.”
Perhaps he had been too conservative in figuring the
dosage. He took care not to use too high a concentration, as
excessive parts per million could result in death—and he didn’t want to
kill her.
At least not that way. His first time with a woman,
it had to be special.
He bit down and squirmed his ass deeper into the
seat, then gently nudged the speedometer needle beyond 45. Any
Highway Patrol officer would give him some leeway over the limit.
It was taking a little risk, but hell, wasn’t this all one giant gamble
on timing, luck, planning, and execution?
Really—how can you kill a person and not incur some
degree of risk? He rather liked it. His heart was thumping, the blood
pulsing through his temples—and a look into the
rearview revealed pupils that were wider than he’d ever seen them. What
a fucking rush. All those wasted years. He had much time to recapture.
He checked all his mirrors. No law enforcement, as
best he could see
Heart raced faster. Hands sweaty.
But really—what could she do to him? Scream? No one
would hear her in this deathtrap. Scratch him? Big
whoop.
He hit a pothole, then checked on her again—and in
the passing flicker of a streetlight, saw a flat metal
object poking out of her purse. What the—
He yanked the minivan over to the curb and twisted
his body in the seat to get a better look. It was.
A badge.
He fisted a hand and brought it to his mouth. What to
do? Is this good or bad? Well, both. He felt a swell of
excitement in his chest and forced a deep breath to calm himself. Could
this be better than sex? Sex . . . why have to choose? This really could
be like his first time with a woman. But not just a woman. Some kind of
cop.
He pulled away from the curb and had to keep his foot
from slamming the accelerator to the floor. Slow—don’t
blow it now.
A moment later, his headlights hit the street sign
ahead. He flicked his signal and slowed. Almost there. He
grinned into the darkness. No one could see him, but in this case, it
didn’t matter. It would be another one of his little secrets.
HE LEFT THE WOMAN
in an abandoned house at the edge of town. He thought about bringing her back to his
place, where the other body was laid out in the shed. But he nixed that
idea. One corpse was enough to deal with. It would soon start to smell,
and he didn’t want a neighbor calling the cops on him. If they found one
of their own in his house, they might kill him right there. Forget about
a long prison term. He’d be executed. It was an accident, they’d
claim. Resisting arrest. They did that kind of stuff, didn’t they? He
wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t take the chance.
He needed to get to a coffee shop to sit and think
all this through. Now that he was deeply committed, the
reality of how far he’d gone began to sink in. And although he thought
he had prepared properly, he was concerned he had rushed into it,
letting the swell of anticipation cloud his planning. Certainly he
hadn’t figured on killing a law enforcement officer. But how could he
have known?
As he drove the minivan back to where he had parked
his car, he wondered if he could use this vehicle again.
There was no blood, and he could simply vacuum it out or take it to a
car wash for an interior detailing. If they did a good job, there’d be
no personally identifiable substance of the redhead left inside. And
then he wouldn’t have to search again for an untraceable minivan.
Still—what if someone had seen it in the Lonely Echo’s parking lot and
that guy in the pickup was questioned by police? He could give them a
decent description of him. No. Better to dump the vehicle and start from
scratch.
But as he pulled alongside his car and shoved the
shift into park, he realized he had made a mistake. No one would
find the woman’s body for days, if not longer. He slammed a palm against
the steering wheel. What fun is that?
Can’t go back—that would definitely be too high a
risk.
Turn the page, move on.
He thought again of the evening, of what went right,
and what he could’ve done better. He didn’t get caught,
so, overall, he’d done a pretty damn good job. But something else he had
learned this past week was that perfection was rarely there in the
beginning. But it would come, eventually.
He would keep seeking until he found it. The next one
he would do
differently. |
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Copyright © 1998-2010 Alan Jacobson. All Rights Reserved.