4

Jackson R.W. Bishop reminded Duvivier that he had contracted to produce still another book.

Duvivier weakened, agreeing that it was wise to commit to paper the first of the violent deaths that would send the new volume skittering up the charts.

He undressed, snatched a towel from the rack in the bathroom, and leaned back against the mattress. The night air was cold. He would connect the heater later, after he had worked. It would be a kind of reward.

He smiled, stroking his genitals with his left hand. The fingers of that hand, since the difficulty in America, would not close. When his penis was erect, he began a steady rhythm with the right.

The eyes of his victim widened, suddenly aware. His hand moved faster. What was it that he felt, that first sensation? Semen spilled across his fingers onto his legs. Yes. Warm blood on his cold hands. How had he known she was dead? The way she had fallen.

Done.

He toweled himself, then sat naked at the typewriter to lock the scene into words.