How disgusting, he thought, the way Tom Hutchens’s murder plasters the news. The man had been worth nothing in life. Why now so important in death?
Regardless of where they were right now, he knew every person on the tour would see the coverage. The main entourage staying in the San Jose hotel had much of the day free. The stage manager and roadies on the way to Denver could watch the small satellite TVs on the specially outfitted bus.
What a frustrating day—with the tour members split up. No way to keep his eye on everyone. If only he could be two places at once.
As superior as he was to the rest of humanity, even he could not manage that.
Tomorrow they would all be reunited.
A second death could wreak havoc with the tour. That was not his intent. Nor was it in his own best interest. If other killings became necessary, his best approach would be to make them appear as accidents.
The world was indeed a savage place. Accidents occurred every day.
When he was five, he’d witnessed the freak incident that took his own father’s life. They were in the workshop area of the garage, his father wielding a buzz saw against a plank of wood. The saw hit an unseen nail and jarred. In a split second it jumped out of the cut line and shot straight toward his father’s left arm.
The deadly blade sliced through just above the elbow.
Blood flew in all directions. Spattered on his own upturned face. His father dropped the saw as the severed limb bounced against the wall and fell. The blade stopped whirring.
He couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream. Could only stare as his father sank to both knees, then collapsed on the cold concrete.
His mother was out running errands. He knew he should get to the phone, call 9 – 1 – 1. At five, he was already intelligent enough to do that. But as he gawked at his father’s unconscious form, disappointment stirred within him. What a stupid accident. How could his own father do something so dumb?
Still, he had to save him.
He glanced toward the door — the one that led into the kitchen and the life-saving phone — and cold panic overtook him. His body turned to lead. Try as he might, he couldn’t move his legs.
Helplessly, he watched his father bleed to death.
When the garage door opened to his mother’s car, he melted into a puddle of shaking and tears.
Days later when he cried to her about his guilt, she told him it wasn’t his fault. But he could never forgive himself. As he grew he could only harden his own spirit to keep from feeling. He’d pushed the memory into a corner of his head, far away from his heart.
Yes, he thought now. Accidents happened. Bloody, deadly, horrific accidents. Many times they were no one’s fault.
But the time might come when he had to help one along.