Work of Art

By Lynn Estes

From the mind of a madman to his canvas, the Death Row inmate strokes his vision of revenge. Only therapy can exorcise his demons. In Los Angeles, police are puzzled by the similarities of the current spree to crimes of a decade ago. For Zack Whitney, Halloween night is the time to be reunited with the love of his life, Megan. But, it is also the time for him to become unwillingly involved in solving the murders. Within the paintings of the insane, lie clues and ultimately the answers. Love is the cornerstone, and the evidence the mortar to build the case to discover the identity of the killer ...or killers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 6, 2008
• ISBN: 9781467860642

Lynn Estes

Work of Art is a sequel to Lynn's first book, God's Weapon, published by AuthorHouse in 2006.  Born in Missouri, raised in Southern California, Lynn's love for writing began with prompting from an eighth-grade English teacher.  He majored in jounalism in college, and is a proud veteran of the Vietnam War where he served with honor in the United States Navy.  A father of three and grandfather of six, Lynn now lives in Las Vegas with his wife, Susan and Italian Greyhound, Neo.

Book preview

Work Of Art

Lynn Estes

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AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

AuthorHouse™ UK Ltd.

500 Avebury Boulevard

Central Milton Keynes, MK9 2BE

www.authorhouse.co.uk

Phone: [phone]

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

© 2008 Lynn Estes. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 3/3/2008

ISBN: 978-1-4343-4196-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4678-6064-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2007909418

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

FORTY-THREE

FORTY-FOUR

FORTY-FIVE

FORTY-SIX

FORTY-SEVEN

FORTY-EIGHT

FORTY-NINE

FIFTY

FIFTY-ONE

FIFTY-TWO

FIFTY-THREE

FIFTY-FOUR

FIFTY-FIVE

To the two most important women in my life, Jo Ann who bore me and stuffed my cranium with values which appealed to Susan, with whom I’ll never be able to spend enough time.

And to all my friends of Ann Dunham’s Interrobangs in Hemet, California. Your advice and encouragement helped bring closure to a dream. Keep writing!

ONE

Edgar guided the moistened sable-bristle brush to the canvas, and a delicate and deliberate stroke connected a gash of color to complete the artist’s vision. His head throbbed. He dipped the tip of the paintbrush into a glob of color, one of many bold tints that encircled the palette like gaudy numerals on the face of a clock. A contented smirk creased his lips as he daubed the red into a teardrop shape. He cocked his head to critique his completed effort and cringed, the pain so intense. The time for his medication must be nearing. Would the screws taunt him and play their power games, bringing him near to the brink of insanity before pushing the pills through the small cutout in his cell door?

I should stop, he thought, opening his eyes and staring at his latest attempt to assuage his carnal urges with art. He fisted the brush and slashed at the canvas. The magenta paint that surged from the end of the matted fibers formed erratic, zigzagged lines like untrue responses on a lie detector’s graph.

He tossed the paintbrush into a plastic drinking cup, half full of water, and rubbed his temples, slowly and methodically, then stretched his neck from side to side. Other paintings lined the square cell and he was proud of his creations, satisfied to have beaten the system thus far, enabling the hobby that suppressed, in conjunction with therapy and medication, his anger and desire to destroy. On the outside, he’d vented his emotional wrath, but now, nothing; not the excitement of stalking targets or hunting his prey and the ultimate orgasm, the fear that registered on their stupid, trusting faces.

Recessed ceiling lights glared from sunup to lights out, another form of sadistic torture by the governing body of the prison legislature. The last eight-plus years here had taught him to make necessary adjustments to survive this meaningless life. Still, it was difficult to sleep with the intrusive overhead torment, a constant reminder of the sunlight denied him, except for a daily hour allotted for recreation; part of the exclusive vacation package awarded by the State, part of life on Death Row.

He slumped into a corner and continued to apply pressure to his skull, the way his mother would do to soothe his childhood headaches long ago.

Born Edgar James Wilkie on November 29, 1968, his birth certificate listed his parents as Thomas and Jeanine of Wilmington, California. Thomas, a sailor stationed aboard a destroyer out of Long Beach, had departed for a Western Pacific nine-month tour of duty in January of that year, leaving behind his young eighteen-year-old wife and their baby daughter to take up residency in the local Navy housing development. Six weeks into his deployment, Jeanine decided to join the ranks of other lonely women whose husbands were sailing the Seven Seas. She became a member of a local sorority known as the WestPac Widows.

The majority of the Sisterhood, in this exclusive club, traveled the local nightclub scene in packs, pledging that they were only out to have a few drinks. If the situation presented itself, and it almost always did, then it would be okay to spend the evening dancing with a member of the opposite sex. On those occasions, when the mind-altering effects of the booze and the longing for a man became irresistible, they would swear each other to secrecy that their infidelities would be taken to their graves.

For Jeanine, that oath became moot as she stood on the pier to welcome her man home after his tour of duty. The maternity dress hung in shame over her swollen belly, the ocean breeze blowing the garment taut against her seven month pregnancy. Before Edgar even walked to the plate, life screamed out, ‘Strike One’.

By an act of sheer will, he finally quarantined the pounding, confining the pain to a lobe in his brain, eyes squeezed shut to seal out the fluorescent assault from above.

The handcuff opening was thrown back on its hinges, rusted springs screeching. A voice bellowed through the slit of a peephole. Cuff up, Wilkie.

Edgar rose slowly, aware that any sudden moves might detonate the cerebral fireworks which were set to explode. Squinting to identify the beady eyes that searched the ten-by-ten foot hovel, he assembled the rest of the guard’s face from memory. What’s up, McDonald.

It’s your day to see the shrink. Let’s go.

My reading glasses, replied Edgar, pointing to a small stand at the end of his bed. I also have a painting for the doctor. May I bring it along?

McDonald strained to see into the cell. Shove it through the slot.

With one hand, Edgar reached for the glasses and dropped them into the pocket of his orange jumpsuit, then picked up a loosely rolled watercolor painting. He squatted in front of the peephole, displaying a submissive, toothy smile, and with a transparent stare, locked eyes with the guard and gingerly guided the cylinder through the door.

Come on, turn around and cuff up.

Whatever you say, Mister Mac.

Tight against his skin, the familiar cold steel slapped around his wrists as McDonald yelled an order to open cell A-6. As was second nature to Edgar, he stepped forward one pace and listened to the electrical hum of the door, grating across the tracks.

The journey to the prison’s infirmary was a long one from the streets of Death Row. Different levels of security existed in each passageway within each building, and the rituals of observing and complying with the status quo were met at every interval.

They walked through the cellblock that housed the lifers with their vacant stares and no flame of hope. In another block, Edgar endured catcalls from inmates who were less informed of his notoriety, those whose lights of freedom shone on the horizon. Some expressions of awe and pathetic respect assured him that his reputation had preceded him down these halls of felons.

He walked with dignity, the jingling of his ankle chains signaling his passing to these men, society’s throwaways, whose misdeeds were crimes of passion or the end results of other botched sins. What none of them could ever relate to was that Edgar James Wilkie had enjoyed every minute of the vile, brutal spree which had shocked the nation. These rejects were beneath him and would never understand the celebrity who shuffled past their cells. They could never appreciate a Death Row Superstar.

Outside the infirmary, the handcuffing procedure was reversed. Buzzed into the doctor’s lab, Edgar waited alone until the bars clamped shut and McDonald joined him.

The room was spotless, walls and ceiling a polished stainless steel so dazzling that his orange coveralls projected a deformed reflection, not unlike trick mirrors at a carnival. The furnishings emulated a standard hospital emergency room décor, only here the addition of straps on the raised table had been added to subdue the unwilling or to protect the distraught prisoner from himself.

Edgar focused on one of the gurneys and reflected on those many hours, lying strapped and cuffed on his back. Out of his mind with pain, he’d endured experimentation with medications as the doctors tried to initiate a state of normalcy in him as close to a rational and functioning human being as possible. He considered it ironic that the State refused to put a mentally unbalanced man to death; treat and cure the symptoms, then conclude the sentencing. With a bit more time and a little luck, he might end up disappointing the jury’s mandate.

A solid metal door swung open and the resident psychiatrist scurried in from an adjoining room. A slight man, he carried himself as erect and tall as his short stature would allow. Except for islands of jet-black hair that floated over each ear, his balding head competed for brightness with the room’s shining interior. A bushy mustache, peppered with distinct strands of gray, partially hid sensuous lips.

He peered over the top of tortoise-shell rimmed glasses which seemed too heavy for his nose to support comfortably. How are we feeling today?

Edgar had been assigned to his care six years prior and, despite the inmate’s lack of any future, the good doctor spared no skill or knowledge to make his patient’s life as calm as possible, to conduct the research needed to understand what made this serial killer tick.

A man dressed in prison attire had followed the doctor into the room. His wardrobe symbolized the upper class of the prison world, two-toned shades of blue, which gave the wearer the status of the trusted and privileged few in a social order of thieves and murderers.

Devin Wallace had been assigned to the infirmary within a matter of days after his arrival. A career in medicine had afforded him the on-the-job training necessary to obtain this sought-after advantage, saving him from back-breaking labor. As a nurse at a San Francisco hospital, he’d decided to live a dual life and played doctor, prescribing medications to the patients on his shift. One such adventure to the pharmacy had resulted in the premature death of an AIDS patient. The argument at his trial was whether a truly grievous error had been made or if he had compassionately taken it upon himself to rid the dying man of prolonged misery.

Devin was about to end his tour of duty in this zoo of caged animals. Five years ahead of schedule, parole had been approved for his release at the end of the week. This acceleration to freedom was the result of excellent behavior over the past ten years, supported by a convincing report card submitted by the doctor standing next to him.

Thirty-three year old Devin exuded strength and masculinity and, at first glance, resembled a model on a Gentlemen’s Quarterly magazine cover. His features were chiseled, his body buff, enhanced by hours in the weight room during recreation, shadow-boxing and bench-pressing. The quintessential ladies’ man, he supported good looks with a confident posture and a soft-spoken and sincere manner. To outsiders, he appeared perfect in every way. But to one man in particular, a latent discovery had been revealed and, despite Devin’s Catholic upbringing and beliefs, he had indulged in the unspeakable and, frankly, the unthinkable. An attraction, mired in deep emotion, now connected him to another man, a feeling he never, ever considered remotely possible. A warm satisfaction spread over him, like hot fudge warms a scoop of ice cream, as he reveled in the penetrating eyes of the man in the orange coveralls.

Edgar, the doctor repeated. I asked how you’re feeling today.

In spite of Dr. Copeland’s education and fortitude, Edgar, likewise, had applied his own manipulations and street-smarts in the doctor’s direction; had done so for years. He looked away from Devin. Not good, Doc. My head really hurts.

Did you take your two o’clock meds? The doctor spun around. Was he given his medication as prescribed, Mr. McDonald? He jerked the chart from the guard’s hand and turned over the top page. You know how important it is for him to take his pills prior to these sessions?

I just came on duty at four, Doc.

Well, he stays an extra hour. Devin, we’ll give him his dosage by injection. That should speed things up a bit. Sorry, Edgar, please lie on the table.

McDonald began to position the leather straps to secure Edgar’s legs.

That won’t be necessary.

But, Doc …?

You may go now. You can return for him at six-thirty.

Hey, Mac, my painting? said Edgar. Hope your wife likes it, Doctor. Wasn’t easy copying from that postcard.

I’m sure she’ll love it. Go on now, roll up your sleeve. Dr. Copeland took the syringe from Devin, squirted a stream into the air and probed for a vein. Gently puncturing the skin, he forced the liquid into the bloodstream. You should start to feel better in a few minutes.

Desperation clouded Devin’s face. He’d hoped for an opportunity to be alone with his mentor, even if only for a minute, realizing that this, in all likelihood, would be their final moments together and a last chance to say goodbye.

He looked over at the doctor, now notating on a chart at his desk, and regulated his voice to a whisper. I’ll never forget you. He cautiously placed his hand on top of Edgar’s and was rewarded with a warm, reassuring smile.

TWO

Three months later, October 31 st

Zack had an uneasy feeling of being watched. In Los Angeles you could never be sure of the intentions of thrill seekers. More often than not, the lead-in to the eleven o’clock news would roll filmed footage of the aftermath of innocent victims who’d been accosted, maimed or killed in drive-by shootings or acts of road rage. A wrong look here or an incorrect turn there and anyone could become another statistic.

Screeching laughter glanced off the car window an octave or two higher than the blues horns that filtered through the speakers of his compact disc player. He inched his head to the side, inconspicuously forcing his sight to the limit, until his peripheral vision registered a conical hat above a warty, hooked nose in the station wagon that had pulled up to the stop light next to him. The green-faced witch pointed black, curved fingernails in his direction and the child’s giggles drew the attention of an Elf and a Spiderman in the back seat.

As the light blinked to green, the trick-or-treaters were spirited away and Zack did a double-take in the rearview mirror. No wonder, he laughed, removing the rainbow-colored wig.

He raced down Century Boulevard, following the signs on the grand-prix-like strip that directed him to the arrival level of Los Angeles International Airport. With one eye on bustling pedestrians, shortcutting the crosswalks, and traffic that angled for curbside positions, he located the terminal’s adjacent parking garage and stopped at a one-armed barricade. He grabbed the ticket and eased forward, strumming his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, eyes glued to the backup lights on a car vacating a prime parking spot right next to an elevator.

After claiming the coveted space, he twisted the red-foam ball from his nose, then grabbed the bushy eyebrows, attached to a white polyurethane clown’s mask, and peeled the disguise off of his head. The meatball shaped spheres painted on his cheeks and the exaggerated application of lipstick that encircled his mouth would have to remain. Wiping the makeup with a tissue would only smear them and look worse; after all, it was Halloween. Struggling out of the blousy top and tossing it on the backseat, he snapped the suspenders in place over his plain white undershirt, and appraised his appearance in the car window. The only way to get through one of the most widely traveled airports in the world, wearing baggy, striped trousers with full ruffles at the ankles and a polka-dotted shirt, was to simply ignore any snickers and stares.

There had been no time to change clothes. The annual get-together at the office was hailed as the party of the year, and as the son of the family-owned national magazine, The Front Line, he had the duty and responsibility to attend, and do so in costume. Ordinarily, he’d stay behind until the last ghoulish hobgoblin headed home to his crypt, then shortly follow suit, and step back into reality for another year. But, tonight, there was no way he could drive to his apartment in the San Fernando Valley from downtown and then back to the airport, despite Megan’s phone call from Kansas City to advise him of the flight delay due to weather in Chicago.

Inside the terminal, he studied the monitor and searched for the flight number, gate and updated arrival time. With twenty minutes to spare, the E.T.A. was probably accurate because the incoming flights listed on the current screen were either on final approach or had already landed.

He snorted at his reflection in a plate glass window. His head itched where the mask had adhered and he scratched irritably. The lanky body that projected out of the billowy trousers topped with a head matted with sweaty curly blonde hair because of the wig, made him look, he thought, very much like a giant dildo in a long skirt.

He struck a pose and wondered at Megan’s first impression when she spotted him in the crowd. A Midwesterner with a conservative attitude about the lifestyle of Pacific Coast dwellers in sunny California, she had a frankness that challenged his arrogance, subtly putting him in his place in the past whenever he’d stepped over, or even came close to crossing the line of common sense. Since entering his life last June, her love for him had attached them at the heart.

The toes of the oversized shoes flopped with every step as he ambled past the long ticketing counter which connected one airline’s domain to another. His embarrassment subsided when he noticed that the agents also sported a haunting hodgepodge of spooky apparel that rivaled his own ridiculous garb.

From behind the United counter, a man perused the line of travelers, and wrenched his head in amazement and disbelief when his gaze settled on the half-clad clown who was trying to side-step an Asian tour group.

Skip Couric had been Zack’s fraternity mate in college. Between jobs, awaiting acceptance to pursue his dream of teaching, Skip collected a pay check as a shift supervisor for the airline. He’d agreed to use his clout to get his friend past the tightened security and allow him to meet his arriving guest at the gate, rather than hunt for her in the confusion and congestion at baggage claim.

Half-waving to get Zack’s attention, he then motioned for Zack to avoid the line and meet him at the counter. Is there a rodeo in town? He raised the break-away counter top to allow entry into the service area.

Funny, Pal.

My nephew’s having a birthday next week and you’d be the perfect present.

I asked for a favor, Skippy, not a flogging.

Skip grinned and placed his hand on Zack’s shoulder, turning him toward a door next to a conveyer belt that devoured baggage in clamoring anticipation, like a funhouse ride. Just clowning around.

Together, they rode the escalator and caught each other up on their lives, sharing news of other friends from school.

At the security check, Skip conducted a conversation with an attendant while displaying his security identification. With apprehension, the guard scrutinized Zack, waiting self-consciously at the end of the x-ray machine. She hesitated at the sight, then had Skip sign on a clipboard.

Costumed in a security uniform, the husky woman shoved a plastic bowl toward Zack and, as he stepped through the metal detector to retrieve his personal items, frowned at him, shaking her head.

All set, said Skip, and left with the promise of a proper reunion soon.

It was good to see Skip after all these years, and he looked back to wave, but his friend was already hurrying away.

He passed by the last-chance kiosks, sidestepping an onslaught of passengers from a newly arrived flight. Some glanced at him quizzically, no doubt thinking the same thing that Megan would, solidifying their perception of Tinsel Town’s flamboyant personalities. After spending the majority of the day thousands of feet in the air, preoccupied with the rat race of running their day-to-day affairs, these weary travelers had probably forgotten about the annual Devil’s Day festivities.

Like the North Star, a sign above the gate at the end of the terminal guided him through the sea of bobbing heads and cell phone talkers, everyone rushing to their destinations. The non-alcoholic O’Doul’s beer, he’d consumed at the office, began to test the strength of his bladder and he searched for a men’s room nearby.

A wheelchair blocked the restroom’s entrance, a large carry-on balanced in the handicapped man’s lap as he rotated the wheels with precision to avoid islands of luggage and men grooming and straightening their ties. An announcement for the boarding of a flight to New York echoed over flushing toilets and splashing water, and like a mass exodus after a warning yell of fire, Zack had a clear passage to the urinals against the far wall. Only one man remained, his blank gaze focused on the wall before him. The logo on the back of his shirt identified him as an airline employee. Bulging biceps tortured the material of his shirtsleeves, his physique so trim and trained into shape that he could probably push an airliner away from the gate without the use of a field tractor. Frizzy, steel-gray hair melded into bushy sideburns, linked horizontally by a wiry mustache, and Zack wondered if the man was in costume as well.

Zack hurried to a urinal and searched for the non-existent fly in his clown pants. Frustrated by his predicament, he lowered the elastic waistband enough to serve his purpose.

The unkempt character backed away and ran water into the sink, then with three heavy pulls, yanked towels from the dispenser. Seconds later, his fleeing footsteps disappeared.

As Zack cinched the elastic above his waist, he noticed a clipboard wedged between the wall and the electric-eye flushing device above the urinal the man had used. Obviously, the paperwork was airport business and dammit, he didn’t have time to play the Good Samaritan.

With clipboard in hand, he looked up and down the terminal, hoping to see the employee, thinking that he couldn’t have gone far before realizing his blunder.

Two down from Megan’s arrival gate, the New York flight was boarding at gate twenty-six. In the packed waiting area, abuzz with passengers gathering carry-on luggage and preparing their tickets for inspection, Zack searched for the distinctive gray bonnet of hair. A crowd had gathered at gate twenty-eight, and Zack glanced at the monitor hanging from the ceiling; Megan’s flight had touched down. There was only one thing he could do, and that was to wait at the side of the check-in desk for the clerk to finish with a passenger and then hand her the clipboard, briefly explaining the situation.

She was amiable, her name badge identifying her as Isabelle Rodriquez from California, and she thanked him with a promise that the misplaced property would find its way to its rightful owner.

With that taken care of, he hurried away to meet the love of his life.



Across from the gate for New York City, a shaggy-haired airline employee kept tabs on both flights, the one boarding for New York and the late one arriving from Kansas City. He hid his face with a magazine and peered over the top at the smiling Hispanic woman, exchanging pleasantries with her passengers. He checked his watch and then glanced toward gate twenty-eight; the body language of the milling sheep would tell him when the incoming jet touched down.

A young woman dressed in the gate agent’s smart, tailored suit approached gate twenty-six. Isabelle, can you handle this yourself? That late arrival from KC’s pulling in.

He strained to hear the conversation and with effort, caught the gist.

I’m fine, Girl. They’re just about all on board. I’ll leave the head count on the desk, Miss-Agent-of-the-Month.

Thanks, Issie.

He watched Isabelle pluck a microphone from the wall and, using a rehearsed announcement, her voice filled the terminal with the final boarding call for New York City. She organized the ticket stubs and began a final count, stopping occasionally as a late arrival rushed to the door, held up by that last important phone call or to hoist a last ounce of courage from the airport bar. Satisfied that the head count agreed with the information on her manifest, she closed the glass door and hurried down the jet way to the plane.

In the waiting area for gate twenty-seven, the scruffy man slung his magazine on an empty chair and crossed over to the now deserted loading area of gate twenty-six.



The high-pitched Pratt and Whitney engines drew last gasps of air and whined down to silence. A lump formed in Zack’s throat, stripping his mouth dry, in anticipation of his first glimpse of her. He waited outside the cordoned-off area that extended beyond the jet way, in a wider carpeted space designed to deplane passengers without causing a major traffic jam. For now the terminal was experiencing a respite from rush-hour traffic. Without packs of wandering nomads running interference, he could clearly see the kiosks in the distance. As his gaze retreated from the subtle commotion around him, he recognized the rough, gray-haired man amble toward the doorway at the neighboring gate.

Like an old Vaudeville act, scampering from the stage, curiosity crossed Zack’s mind, interrupted by an exuberant greeting from the first debarking passenger.



He glanced one final time around the boarding area. Except for the joker from the bathroom in the clown get-up, no one had paid any attention to him; his disguise couldn’t be more perfect. He slipped a keycard into a small box and an electrical pulse granted him admittance. The door closed securely behind him and, like a warrior stalking his enemy, he gracefully and cautiously continued down the sloping, carpeted walkway. As he neared the end, he began to distinguish intermittent conversations overriding the idling engines of the 757. The jet way veered sharply to the left, and he stopped short and hugged the wall, listening intently to every word. He had studied the procedures and, familiar with the routine, knew she would be leaving the plane alone. The only glitch now could be a ground crew member still on board reviewing last minute information with the pilot. If that scenario played out, he could escape via the side door to the tarmac, delaying the inevitable; eventually he’d succeed. A good deal of time had been invested in plotting the payback, and he’d convinced himself that his actions were justified. The subliminal thrill of anticipation waged war with his nerve, challenging his courage to continue, but his need for vindication surrendered to arrogance. The conscious thrill of triumph, while proclaiming terror in the mind of society, would linger long after the deed itself.

He unsnapped the leather sheath under his shirt and grabbed the carved bone handle, easing the knife free, raising it to within inches of his face. It glistened in the artificial lighting, and he ran his finger along its sharp stainless edge, feeling a swirl of pleasure in his groin as the point pricked under a fingernail.

Goodbyes were concluding and salutations for a safe flight exchanged. The plane’s door slammed shut and the concussion shimmied along the flooring, the soft whine of the platform slowly pulling away from the fuselage. Adrenaline rushed through him, creating an internal G-force that stretched his nerves taut, immobilizing him with the weight of a gravitational surge equivalent to 5 G’s.

At the brink of blacking out, he rotated around the corner.

She jumped, her olive skin blanching. Her face relaxed in recognition of the airline uniform, then frowned. As she attempted an admonishment, he clamped his hand over her mouth, bracing her head against the wall and the cold knife pierced her stomach. He plunged the blade again, this time into her side and continued the jousting, slashing cloth and skin.

The assault had taken less than a minute, and he looked at the empty gap left by the plane, confirming that his covertness was undetected by anyone on the blacktop below. Through the window, he saw the massive hulk of metal rev its engines and power toward the runway.

He looked at the lifeless body; her treasonous blood pooling into the crevices of the boarding dock, blood that would soon trickle down to the concrete. With a surgeon’s precision, he carved his signature trademark, one that would ensure notoriety, and with steady hands, wiped the knife on her skirt. His objective satisfactorily met, he slid the knife into the leather casing and slipped out the service door.



Zack’s creative imagination played charades with his sense of humor as he caricatured the scene in the waiting area. The deplaning passengers reminded him of the movie, Close Encounters, when the abducted space travelers stepped zombie-like onto terra firma , their expressions vague, not quite sure how to account for their lost time. Add to the illusion an occasional costume or a scary mask and his macabre game was complete. The migration of huddled masses seemed never-ending. His anxiety mounted during occasional lulls, no doubt caused by someone holding up the debarkation to free an overstuffed bag from the