Heart of Malice

By C. Billie Brunson

Heart of Malice is the story of Elvis Thaddeus Proctor, a kind, law-abiding man who through criminal and surgical circumstance inherits the heart of a sociopathic serial killer. Under the diabolical influence of this heart, Elvis is compelled to enact vile offenses upon humans and animals alike.
More importantly, Heart of Malice is the bittersweet story of Elvis best friend, Jason Slane, who happens to have a heart of gold. It is too bad that it remains hidden behind a pattern of erotic pursuits.
Through Jason, Elvis finds a potential solution to his dilemma in the spunky and lovely person of Monica Coy. Soon, though, he moves to end their relationship out of concern for her life.
Elvis then experiments with family activities, a popular recreational substance and aerobics, all aimed at purging his heinous inclinations. These fail.
At this point, Monica learns through traumatic experience of the ill-begotten affliction suffered by the man she holds dear. During this time, Jason also becomes reluctantly aware of his friends horrible predicament. He makes a valiant attempt to save Elvis from an entity he cannot comprehend.
But through this endeavor his true heart, at last, is able to shine.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503568716

C. Billie Brunson

C. Billie Brunson- an elusive alter-ego who continues to evolve in the field of creative writing. This debut novel testifies to a partiality to poetry for which the author does not beg to be pardoned. Born in Chicago, this young aspiring writer and mom relocated to Gary, Indiana in the late 1970s. Graduation from Horace Mann High was followed by a brief attendance at the University of Iowa. C. Billie Brunson eventually settled in the Phoenix-Metro area and now lives in Scottsdale with a son, a daughter and their pet cat. Visit the recently-launched blog: www.wordartjunkie.com to sample additional works.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Reality Is the Nightmare

Elvis knew the dramatic bobbing and thumping around of the ripening corpse in the trunk to be a devious invention of his mind. So he did his best to ignore the hallucinatory trick, determined to navigate the unpredictable terrain of the wild Sonoran desert without any major setback. His exclusive thought remained fixed on dispensing with the incriminating body; on rendering it just as inconsequential as the dust his hybrid, two-wheel-drive vehicle clawed across.

The engine sounded asthmatic, pushed to the fighting limit of its engineering, while it labored through the choking, grainy elements. Groans and screeches sounded from the floor underneath as an overtaxed suspension jostled Elvis in his seat, even while his foot bullied the gas pedal.

Light from a half-moon adorning the deep charcoal sky helped with locating a creeping depression in the shrinking distance. Elvis slowed as he approached the low, dry ravine, stopping a few feet from where the ground sloped downward. Upon getting out of the car, he turned to survey the expanse behind, attempting to judge if enough inhospitable, uninhabited country lay between civilization and his current position to conceal what he planned.

The two-lane highway seemed so distant he would have doubted it was there, if he hadn’t driven it not twenty minutes ago. He was at least four miles off-road by his estimation. Besides that, traffic along it would continue to be very limited until the morning rush hour began.

Yes, this was a good spot.

Nodding with satisfaction, he turned and opened the passenger door on the driver’s side to get his backpack and the full, two-gallon gas can out. He walked over to the high, edge and set both on the ground. After rolling down the driver’s window, it was time to shift the car to neutral and start pushing.

The tires’ grip on the sandy surface proved insubstantial, making it necessary for Elvis to keep pushing, until the two front wheels began to hang out over the emptiness. Once the front end of the vehicle began tipping, gravity did the rest. The shifting, gentle decline seemed to buoy the car so that it did not flip. Instead, it skidded along the way, angling to the side as it went. It finished with its nose pointed the same direction that flood waters might surge along the bottom, as if to suggest a sentimental cruise down the middle of the arroyo.

Elvis lifted his eyes to the night sky, judging the darkness. In that moment, a cloud shielded the moon like a bridal veil, humbling its shine to a weak glow. Under sweeter circumstances this might have brought a nostalgic smile to Elvis’ face. Instead, he merely thought with relief that it should further mask the smoke. He slipped on the backpack, picked up the fuel and went to join his Toyota in the dry gorge.

In short order, he removed the license plate and put it aside. Then, set about saturating the interior of the vehicle with gasoline. Though he knew it to be a strange pleasure, he breathed the fumes in deep while he did the job, as though sorting out the subtle fragrant auras of a fine wine.

This encumbered his sense of smell to the point it could not pick up the putrescence that wafted from the trunk when he opened it to ready the interior for incineration. Taking special care not to get any of the accelerant on his clothing, Elvis poured the remaining liquid all over and around the bundled up body. After setting the gas can down by his feet, he reached back to retrieve a cheap cigarette lighter from the side pocket of the backpack. With thumb on the flicker, he leaned over the cargo space, his head bowed and vacant eyes staring in mild reflection, a subconsciously induced moment of silence in honor of the dead.

Maybe I should…. No. There are no other options.

To his ears the clicking noise from the lighter as he strummed the tiny steel roller sounded as loud as a firecracker in the surrounding gloom. In the split second that followed, Elvis let go a scream, dropped the lighter and jumped back in near light-speed succession as the very air around him flared up and attempted to cook him along with the trunk and its unfortunate occupant. Coughing and gasping through his mouth, he waved away a dozen tendrils of smoke that rose from his clothing. The intense heat of the blaze even got to the gas can, melting it down to a cherry-apple-red blob.

Afraid it might collapse in an ashen heap, he touched fingers to nose, light as a feather. It felt hot and a little crispy but otherwise seemed okay. Though, for sure, all the hairs that had been in the nostrils a few seconds ago were now reduce to smut.

As the trunk proceeded to roar with flames, he maneuvered the backpack from his shoulders and let it fall to the dusty ground. He opened it to retrieve a crude DIY torch. Fashioned from a rolled up bunch of grocery store sales papers and having one end weighted with a heavy rock attached by rubber bands, the item wouldn’t fetch a quarter at the local flea market. But it would do for his purposes. He found another lighter.

After moving to the side of the car he took a step back, thought for a moment, and then took a few more steps back. He flicked the lighter to flame and lit the end of the newspaper. Elvis hurled the device at the car. It landed square inside by way of the driver’s side window.

A moment passed. With an ear-popping whooomp! the rest of the car became a solid fireball. The volatile aspect of the process surprised him a little. A minute later the vehicle exploded, affecting dramatic recoil from Elvis. Soon, any trace of evidence would be gone.

Acknowledging the passage of time, Elvis soon turned away from the still burning vehicle. He snatched up the license plate and shoved it into his backpack. Hoisting the pack into place, he then scrambled up from the gorge and embarked on a trek back to the highway. Walking encouraged pondering and he put up no resistance to the rehash of events that ran through his head like the credit roll at the end of an uncut movie, brought to screen from the low-budget side of Hollywood.

The past weekend trumped previous ones in terms of overall enjoyment. It came complete with a terrific date with a woman by the name of Monica. The lone stain on the recreational itinerary sprang from his inability to recall much of what transpired after Friday night.

A remembered dull discourse sprinkled with phrases pertaining to sin, repenting and forgiveness hinging on monetary contribution told him he must have attended Sunday morning services. But, everything else that occurred was, at best, sketchy.

His brain dredged up a dark blue….something, a metallic edge dripping scarlet so deep it bordered on fiction, and, strangely enough, blonde hair.

He had reddish brown hair, not blonde, and neither was Monica’s.

He stumbled through a pint-sized mound of sand as he kept going.

The experienced snatches of memory all amounted to a pile of intriguing clues he felt were trying to lead him to an answer. If only he could be sure of the question. Did I meet another lady besides Monica? If so, what did we do together? Why am I so very tired?

Elvis trudged on, shivering at the sequence of incidents that eventually solved the mystery of what had happened.

Deviating from his usual habits, he’d turned on the TV to watch the evening news. At first, the only good part about watching the broadcast stemmed from the convenient and scrumptious Chinese food he shoveled into his mouth while he watched. From there, things advanced from troubling to horrible in very little time.

Next thing he knew, his thumb, poised and ready to tap the channel button, froze of its own accord. On the screen a photo appeared. It presented a young woman, early twenties, long, full blond hair, almond-shaped blue eyes, oval-face, cheeks of pale rose, thin lips made to appear fuller than they were, courtesy of a heavy blush line and lipstick of a deep, super glossy rose. Elvis’ short-term memory beat his body to the edge of the seat. Somehow, he knew this woman.

His thumb forsook the channel button for turning up the volume.

Still, his fixation on the photo meant he caught only the occasional word or phrase of the report.

…name is Christina Finley. …missing now for three days. …car found abandoned on highway…police suspect foul-play.

Soon after, he did try to brush off the story by taking a trip. This seemed a smart idea until he went to the car and got in.

Immediately, the smell assaulted his sniffer. It occurred to him that he’d smelled it earlier when he went to and, again, come back from work. But, its potency had increased. What could it be? Well, whatever the cause it needed to be sought out and abolished without pity.

He quickly scanned the interior. Nothing. No surprise there, as he was the only one in the car most times. He checked the glove compartment. Nothing. He got out of the car and lowered himself onto his knees to achieve an unobstructed look underneath the seat. Perhaps, he’d let fall a meatball from one of several Subway sandwiches he’d eaten at different times while driving. The tasks of watching the road often did not harmonize with watching for food falling from between the bread on the other end.

But, again, nothing flourished under the seat.

He stood up. It was impossible he imagined the smell. The potency seemed just short of personified.

Wait. The trunk.

His stomach tightened. His palms began to sweat. The ominous words of the news reporter came back to him unbidden.

Christina Finley…missing. No. I won’t… I can’t look.

But, what must be done must be done.

After a quick visual scan of the vicinity to ensure no one neared, he pushed a button on the remote and the lock disengaged with a soft ka-Thunk.

With much trepidation, he walked towards the back of the car. He halted for a second. The carport was obscured for the most part. But it might not hurt to move his car to a more secluded spot. He shook the cautionary idea away in desperate denial of the thought that what he guessed might be inside would really be there. His hesitant steps resumed. The smell worsened as he got closer.

When he reached the trunk he paused, instinctively holding his breath.

Lifting the lid just enough… the scene inside proved more than he could handle.

In the next moment his stomach rejected his dinner.

But, from a sinister place within, a plan hatched.

***

And so here he was, hiking across the middle of the desert under cover of night after destroying his car.

Abruptly, he halted, loosed a guttural howl, lending voice to the bitterness and anguish tormenting his sense of decency. Sinking to his knees, he beat his fists upon the ground over what he had been coerced into doing. The pounding did not stop until his arms refused to move anymore.

Not too long afterwards, he set his legs and feet to walking, then jogging, a full-on sprint and, in the end, a weary one-foot-in-front-of-the-other, during which time the real questions begged.

What has taken hold of me? Why…how could I do this?

Chapter 2

The Start of it All

He was The Magnificent Reincarnator, or, a second favorite, The New Identity Master. Some, though, might bestow upon him a less desirable and very unimaginative title, such as, Life Trafficker or Stolen License Dealer. All of the terms fit, more or less. But, The Magnificent Reincarnator captured the proper glory. The term engendered the level of esteem and honor he felt he deserved from those who looked to him for aid.

His day job, in the janitorial industry, failed to define him. But, tampering with who people are, unhinging their sense of control over their lives – that’s the stuff. Doing so was his idea of training for the being the force of reckoning he knew he was destined to become someday. And, along the way, he could make a few extra hundred dollars to use towards the management of his gambling career.

Sitting back in his dingy, second-hand office chair, he reviewed at arms-length the specimen he would soon present to one of his patrons.

It was picture-perfect, of course.

He glanced at the neon green numbers of the digital clock on the card table. The same table served multifaceted duties as an office, a TV stand and, often, a dining area. In fifteen minutes he would meet up with his latest client, Ferris Duncan, in the empty lot down the street, always careful not to sell any of his work straight out of his studio apartment. That kind of mistake had cost his brother more than just freedom.

Undoubtedly, Ferris Duncan was not the client’s real name. But, this did not concern the Reincarnator. The only thing he wanted to take away from their meeting was money.

Seeing him stand, Buster and Bull, his pit bull pets, rose with eagerness.

No walk right now, boys. When I get back, okay? Promise. Squatting, he affirmed their blind faith in his words with vigorous rubbing behind their ears and sappy baby talk.

Rescuing a light, dark grey jacket from a pile of partially clean clothing lying on the floor, he put it on. He closed the envelop but left it unsealed after dropping in the license along with a couple more samples from which his buyer could choose. Stuffing the envelope in a pocket, he grabbed his keys and went out, merging with the dim-lit night.

As he walked towards the appointed locale, a smile curved his lips. The ringing of slot machines at the casino sounded from afar in his head. Reflexively, his steps fell in sync with their musical chiming, clacking and clanging.

***

They spoke not a word in greeting; instead, acknowledging each other with stiff nods. The Magnificent Reincarnator reached into his pocket and took out the envelope, handing it over to his patron. On the spot, the man pulled the items from the package and examined them to see if they met his specifications.

The Reincarnator spared no doubt they would.

Sure enough, the so-called Ferris Duncan returned the cards to the envelope. He then reached into a hidden pocket inside his sports coat, extracted a standard-issue bank envelope and gave it to him. Salutes were exchanged, more casual than military proper, ending the transaction.

The one posing as Ferris Duncan turned and went to his car.

The Reincarnator began tracing his steps back to the place he considered home. It was only after hearing the Jaguar’s engine start and the slight screech of the tires that he dared check the contents of the package he’d been given.

The money was all there as expected. The client might be a dangerous sort with a very distasteful bearing. Yet he’d established himself to be trustworthy when it came to matters of commerce.

The Reincarnator fished his phone from his pants pocket and called for a cab. Mazatzal, here I come.

As he continued home, he thought of the merchandise he’d just sold. At least one of the licenses held a special detail. One line near the bottom read:

Donor: Y

The first time he’d left this modest little line intact on a license he’d planned to re-purpose, it had been a rookie error. He remembered how he’d fretted over whether or not his customer would notice, reject the piece and, just that quick, there would be no extra money for his longed-for trip to the casino. But the man either didn’t notice or didn’t care enough to mention what should have been regarded as a significant flub. From than instance, The Reincarnator began to seek out licenses with the Donor line on purpose, purely for amusement. A kind of secret contest developed around guessing whether anyone would ever observe the small detail and began to think.

Sometimes, as he guessed it, his buyers were incapable of grasping the ramifications of this simple line composed of six letters and a colon. For sure, some of his clients were about as intelligent as warts. But he doubted if the man calling himself Ferris Duncan was even a little ignorant of the ethical implications.

No, this one would have connected the dots. He would be very well aware that, perchance he ever got into a deadly accident with this not-quite-legal document on his person and he happened to be the one who was dead, this seemingly innocuous detail, for all intents and purposes, granted those qualified to do so permission to harvest certain body organs within minutes of his sudden demise.

Could it be the fellow reasoned that a last, unselfish sacrifice offered during the final breaths of life could affect the redemption of his unworthy soul? Might he cheat Death, skip over Purgatory, and speed along to Nirvana, Total Enlightenment, Heaven or whatever may be the popular dogma of the day?

The Reincarnator shivered at the thought of being on the receiving end of body parts from any of his clients, the so-called Ferris Duncan least of all. To chase residual feelings of creepiness away, he began whistling a playful Mexican tune from days of childhood.

Before he realized it, he arrived at his front door, having been on auto-pilot during the entire trip. In that same moment, the cab pulled up at the curb, honking at him.

He hesitated, considering the promise he’d made to his pets.

Aw, they can wait.

Right now, Lady Luck called his name. She was a cold-blooded, traitorous, gold-digging whore. But, he loved her anyway.

Chapter 3

Final Day

The Man had downed too much coffee, even for him. Seemed like a good idea at the time. On second thought, it hadn’t. But, it didn’t matter. Besides, short of a bulimic-inspired purge, it wasn’t as if he could undrink the stuff. The overall effect as he stood there was that even breathing seemed somehow laborious. In any case, the rich brew set a certain tone in him that fit his current disposition well. Especially given certain twisted deeds he had in mind for this much-anticipated day. And a splendid day this was shaping up to be.

How long had it been? Two months? Three? Something like that.

The time had come to supply the media a new, yet, familiar old headline. The competing networks, in their ongoing pursuit of the coveted top-rated news program spot, needed new inspiration with which they could grab the eyes and ears of their audiences who were perpetually plagued with short attention spans. The Uptown Butcher, as he had been dubbed, considered it his privilege to provide them with such.

So, he’d waited on purpose. For one, keeping the detectives and other Agents, his fans as he thought of them, hanging in suspense and totally clueless as to when and where he would strike next was a thrill all its own. Second, it allowed a little extra time to plan out each act with accuracy, without flaw. Meticulous strategy was his insurance policy against dumb mistakes that might lead to premature retirement, so to speak. He didn’t need the headache of having his would-be-capturers only one or two steps behind him. Ten or twenty was better, much better.

At this point, the caffeine racing through his veins might as well have been a roller-coaster hurtling down tracks at break-neck speed. This, along with the way his glands dumped adrenaline into his system as if there might be no tomorrow, made a feral combination.

He swiped the palm of his hand across his face.

A look at his gold timepiece, one of several favored trinkets lifted from the habitats of previous unwilling subjects, dictated he had enough time for the indulgence. So he turned his attention inward– his routine warmup prior to criminal activity, a mediation of sorts. He picked up on a few things of slight interest.

His heart beat strong and steady. Considering the level of caffeine mixed with adrenaline rampaging through his system it should have been palpitating. Then again, it had doubtless grown accustomed to this routine. His nerves fairly tingled with excitement. His muscles, every fiber of them, felt tense and ready to rocket into action with the slightest poke or prod. His left eyelid twitched. The palms of his hands were dry, as was his mouth. He bit