Prologue

 

She watched in confusion, as he transformed from the friendly man she had been seeing for nearly a month, to a crazed killer in the blink of an eye. He had never shown this darkness before, she thought to herself. His eyes raged with fire as he lunged forward, grasping her throat with a tightening squeeze and slamming her back against the wall. The sounds drifted to silence as the room filled with darkness. Her thoughts bounced in confusion. Why is he doing this? Who is he? How come I didn’t? Am I going to…?

“Such a shame,” he said. “How could such a pretty little thing be so fucking stupid? Was I supposed to let you live because you were an ignorant little bitch?”

He chuckled to himself as he flung her lifeless body over his shoulder and headed to his truck. His joy was overwhelming. He did not typically feel joy, or anything for that matter, just the same meaningless bullshit day after day. The rush she provided would last for a while, along with an intense excitement. He had known such excitement only three times. Once with his first kill, again when the first novel hit the shelves, and now, as his masterpiece grew toward completion.

She was perfect for the role, he thought, as he opened the back of the refrigerated box truck and tossed her in. He climbed in after her, pulling the doors shut behind him. He then proceeded to the hidden wall concealed in the front of the box, directly behind the cab, and stashed the corpse inside the hidden room. Once she was hidden, he closed up the box, climbed into the cab and began the long journey back home to New York.

He had played his game to perfection, taking his time, fucking her for a month, yet even as she took her dying gasp, she had absolutely no idea who he was or why she was a mere flicker away from death. More profoundly, he had fooled them all. A dozen novels and all the faithful fans and followers that believed his work to be fiction had no idea that the stories they loved were true. The eagerness boiled inside him. He could not wait to tell the final chapter, complete his masterpiece, and finish the story. He had received hundreds of fan letters and thousands of emails, all begging for the next installment. He certainly would not disappoint. They would get the horrific brutality they asked for, only they would get it in a fashion more real than they could have ever imagined. He carried no guilt, yet the fans certainly would.

He now had the final piece of his murderous puzzle. Once back at his warehouse in New York, he could put her in place, revealing it to them all. He wondered how long it would take people to discover that the grizzly image covering his book, was in fact, the true resting place of 113 bodies that people throughout 14 states had been searching for, for up to seven years since he began his collection. He savored the possibility of the family members of his victims reading the actual story of their loved ones death while smiling with chills and asking for more. The ignorance may offer bliss, he thought, but the sadistic reality will provide nothing short of the perfect mind-fuck.

One hundred thirteen souls, one hundred thirteen families, one hundred thirteen fathers, one hundred thirteen mothers, sons, daughters, husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, cousins, grandparents. I will torture them all with one single keystroke. The thoughts rolled through him as he laughed, amused in his brilliance. He would drive straight through the night and finish the manuscript the next day. His publisher would have it on bookshelves in a week or two. His thoughts brought him a devilish grin.

He stopped at a truck stop just west of Indianapolis to top off the tanks and grab a dozen donuts and some coffee for the long journey back to New York. As he pulled up to the pump he spotted two state troopers, as they sat, drivers door to drivers door. Shooting the shit, while murderers are on the loose, he thought, as he hopped out and began to fuel up.

He finished at the pump and went inside to gather his necessities and pay. As he turned to leave, he came face to face with a police officer. Pigs must be done bullshittin’, he thought, as he excused himself, and continued toward the door.

“Hey, hold on a second,” the officer said.

Without twitching a nerve, he turned around. “What can I do ya for, Officer?”

“Hey, you are Howard Harvey, aren’t ya?” the trooper asked.

“Yes sir, the one and only,” he replied with a smile.

“Any chance I could get an autograph? I’ve got a copy of ‘A Murderer in Your Midst’ out in the cruiser.”

“Well absolutely. I’d be honored!” he lied.

The trooper followed him outside, grabbed the book from the dashboard, and handed it to him.

“What’s your name, sir?” he asked.

“Officer Brian Duncan,” he responded with excitement. “I can’t believe it is you. I am a huge fan!”

“Well, Officer Duncan, it has definitely been a pleasure. Would you like me to include your name in the next one?” he asked as he signed the book and returned it to the officer.

“Really? That would be amazing!”

Yes, he thought, it will be.

As he started back to the truck, the officer asked. “Hey what does a novelist need a refrigerated box truck for?”

With a calm smile, he responded. “Well, come here, I’ll show ya.”

The officer followed him to the back of the truck and he swung open the doors, revealing a sofa, table, television, coffee maker, and a few other commodities.

“I hate hotel rooms. You never get any privacy,” he stated. “I spend too much time on the road researching. I’ve learned this works much better.”

“That’s just like the one in ‘Roadkill’.”

“Where do you think I got the idea?”

“You got a secret room in this one too?”

With his calm smile and soothing tone, he replied. “If you find it, I might have to make you a victim.”

The officer let out a chuckle. “Well, I appreciate it. Can’t wait for the next book. I’ll be lookin’ for my name in there. You travel safely. Thanks again.”

“Likewise, Officer,” he said, admiring the irony and laughing at the officer’s ignorance. Officer Duncan, he thought, hope you like thrillers.

He finally returned to the highway. After a few miles, he decided to see what the radio had to offer so he flipped it on and thumbed through the stations. Hoping for something loud, and evil, he was disappointed to find only talking. As he began to turn it off, he heard a voice say something about New York City. He paused for a moment before turning it up.

“And Washington D.C….Again, reports have been confirmed that the explosions were indeed nuclear attacks…We have verified that several suitcase sized nuclear weapons have detonated in New York and Washington D.C….Initial reports are estimating complete devastation in New York City and surrounding areas. We will bring you further information on Washington as soon as it is available.

He flipped off the radio and sat silently astonished for several minutes, then exploded into furious rage. He punched the steel dash of the old truck over and over, as he screamed out an array of creative obscenities, blood pouring from his knuckles. I finally had the last fuckin piece, he thought. Seven fuckin years, a dozen fuckin novels, one fuckin hundred fuckin thirteen fuckin pieces, my fuckin masterpiece, and all that is left is that ignorant fuckin twat in the back. His mind went blank with disbelief.