TIME TO DIE: Based on a true story

By Stan Wald

Growing up on the poor side of glitzy Hollywood, Loren Neestrom has developed into a handsome young man worthy of a big-screen idol. But beneath his good looks lies another side, too dark even for Hollywood.

Raised by a deranged mother, he is torn between their incestuous relationship and the drive to realize his secret desire ... a diabolical plot to kidnap and kill two boys.

Steve Bell and his nerdy sidekick, Rick Shoeman, are carefree kids coming-of-age. Their lives during the summer of 1961 revolve around body surfing at Santa Monica Beach, chasing girls, and playing cards. Too macho to ride bikes, they hitchhike everywhere they need to go.

Thumbing a ride home the night of September 16, the boys get caught in an unexpected downpour. With few cars on the flooded roads, they're grateful when a man pulls over to give them a lift. Behind the wheel, Loren Neestrom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098367312

Book preview

PROLOGUE

THE RIDE BEGINS

September 16, 1961

9:00 PM

ANGRY CLOUDS ABOVE the western fringe of Los Angeles opened like a spigot.

The sudden volley pelted the two boys as they darted across the street, sloshing toward the safety of the Chevron station.

Protected from the deluge under the canopy, they shook off the rainwater from their bomber jackets like a dog shedding water. Soon, they began to haggle over which one had to go back out in the storm and hitchhike.

After some heated bickering, they agreed to settle the dilemma the old-fashioned way; by flipping a coin.

Rick dug a quarter from his change pocket and tossed it high in the air.

Call it! And don't wait until it hits the ground like you usually do.

Tails never fails, baby! Steve shouted amid the overhead clatter, anxiously watching the coin as it bounced atop the slick concrete and rolled in a wide arc before flattening with the perched eagle face up.

Hah! Like I always say, tails never fails, he gloated while pulling out a small black comb to reshape his ducktail.

Raking his hair in place, he cast a glance at his scowling cohort.

I see the look on your face, he said with a sly grin. You’re pissed I won the toss, aren’t you? Seems like someone forgot who got us a ride in an Eldorado, eh shmuck? And a tricked-out one to boot!

Rick clenched his jaw - he remembered all too well what happened in the Caddy. Without a word, he scooped up the quarter that failed him and stepped into the downpour.

WITH AN EYE on his best friend, Steve relaxed against a support pillar and fired up a Marlboro with his trusty Zippo. Drawing in a lungful, he French-inhaled and allowed his mind to drift.

The image of his girlfriend soon filtered into his thoughts, slow dancing with her in the bedroom. Fused as one, their bodies moved in sync to Rosie and the Originals singing Angel Baby on the hi-fi; Sue whispering in his ear, When you are near me, my heart skips a beat. I can hardly stand on my own two feet….

The pleasant vision slowly ebbed, leaving him to wonder how the evening might have turned out if he hadn’t bolted from her house in a fit of rage when she reneged on her promise - a vow to surrender to his pent-up desires with a night he would never forget.

Lost in the memory of what could have been, cold water seeping through a gap in the aluminum awning plopped on his head, snapping him back to the present; a Saturday night that began with high expectations, only to turn ugly.

Through the flurry of glistening rainfall, he forced his attention to the darkened storefronts along Robertson Boulevard; a vast array of low-profile commercial buildings constructed in the 30s and 40s.

Lining the main artery like San Francisco row houses, most of the cluttered shops maintained their original façades, adding to the nostalgic character of the old neighborhood.

On Saturdays, weary store owners shut their doors at dusk. By nine, the street appeared deserted and one of the only merchants open for business was the Chevron. On rainy nights, its glaring floodlights stood out like a watchtower, reflecting distorted images off the shimmering roadway.

Bored, Steve peered over his shoulder at the historical boundary marker no more than fifty feet away: WELCOME TO BEVERLY HILLS.

With a twinge of envy, he stared at the sign thinking: the city where the rich and famous lived, all in elaborate mansions with assorted palm trees and manicured lawns the size of football fields nestled behind protective walls with ornate security gates - notable celebrities, film directors, producers, power brokers and high-ranking studio hacks; they all played in this prestigious and pretentious Land of Oz, where life appeared idyllic.

One day I’m going live there when I’m a well-known actor, he reminded himself, then he turned and glimpsed once more at his pal cowering from the unrelenting assault, trying to flag down the occasional motorist.

From afar, he looked smaller, almost puny against the backdrop of water roiling feverishly off the asphalt.

****

IN TRUTH, both boys were considered short for their age. Wiry and well-proportioned, not an ounce of body fat on them, fourteen-year-old Rick stood five-foot four, and Steve, a year older, claimed to be two inches taller. Other than similarities in stature, they bore little else in common.

Rick Shoeman’s bright hazel eyes complemented a slightly rounded face peppered with freckles and a bulbous nose destined to grow over the years. His mass of curly chestnut-brown hair was cropped close on the sides and neatly buzzed at the nape.

To those who knew him, he personified the typical boy-next-door; often labeled as average-looking but filled with unbridled zest and a warped sense of humor. His nerdy ways, however, were a stark contrast to his constant sidekick who projected a street-savvy arrogance.

Steve Bell did not conform to any societal modality, fashioning himself with the rebellious panache of James Dean as portrayed in Rebel Without a Cause. Much like the iconic star, he preferred wearing white tees with rolled-up sleeves and well-worn Levis riding low on the hips.

His lush dark-brown pompadour was styled straight back except for a clump of hair pulled forward in a cascading jellyroll. With a strong jawline and welcoming caramel-brown eyes, he made most teenyboppers melt. Many were quick to describe his unblemished baby-face as cute, a descriptive he loathed. To him, the word imparted femininity, something his macho-driven ego refused to tolerate.

****

POWERFUL WIND GUSTS shifted the torrent to cascade in diagonal sheets, forcing Rick to shield his face from the painful slivers pricking at him like a thousand needles.

In the distance, he spotted the glow of high beams bearing down on him. Hunched over and squinting, he put his thumb in the air hoping to be seen, praying someone would pull over.

The headlamps abruptly disappeared, and as the blacked-out vehicle closed in, it slowed to a crawl before passing without stopping.

Perturbed at the ploy, Rick ran into the empty traffic lane gesturing with his middle finger, shouting obscenities as the car plowed through the overflowing interchange.

A corner of Steve’s mouth rose. He’s such a putz. He’ll be lucky if he makes it to eighteen.

Minutes later another set of beams caught Rick’s eye. He pumped his arm repeatedly until the black ’57 Chevrolet Bel Air coasted to a stop in front of him.

A sense of déjà vu swept through him as he stared at the car - it resembled the one he flipped off moments ago, but in haste, he dismissed the notion and yanked on the door handle.

Never one to be fearful, he leaned inside, and as he did, water from his mop of hair dribbled onto the custom tuck-and-roll upholstery.

The handsome young man behind the wheel bared his teeth, then his dour expression seamlessly morphed into a strained smile: Y’all need a lift?

Eager for relief from the onslaught outside, Rick said, You betcha! and backed out, yelling over his shoulder toward the gas pumps: C’mon boy, we’ve got a ride. Move it!

With his coat pulled over his head, Steve dashed to the street helter-skelter in a hail of raindrops. Mid-way, he heard his friend holler, Shotgun!

You’re such an asshole, Steve hissed as he got within earshot, upset for missing the opportunity to sit in the prime seat. Miffed, he brushed past him and opened the door.

The startled driver hesitated before flashing a toothy smile: Well hello there. My name’s Loren … and welcome to my web.

Taken aback by the odd remark, Steve scrunched his brow suspiciously and quickly sized him up: chiseled features like a handsome matinee idol, powerfully built and exceptionally tall, early twenties with tousled strawberry blond hair and lobeless ears flaring bat-like. Most noticeable were his crystal-blue eyes - the reflection from the dome-light made them appear translucent one moment, piercingly blue the next.

Don’t go! warned a voice in his head, but the chilling rain and desire to hurry home outweighed the risk.

After a cursory glimpse at the rear compartment, he grabbed the backrest and pulled it forward to climb in.

Hey kid, get out of there! the man blurted, and patted the seat next to him. You gotta sit up here because I got stuff in the back I don’t want disturbed.

Steve cringed - three guys sitting leg-to-leg was not cool, especially sandwiched in between.

What’s the holdup? Rick complained from behind.

Half out of the car, Steve repeated what the guy said.

Get you sorry ass in because I’m getting soaked! We aren’t going far so don't make it a big deal, okay?

All right! All right! But now you owe me two favors, he was about to say before Rick shoved him inside, headfirst.

THE CHEVY EASED from the curb and crossed Olympic when the light turned green.

As they navigated the flooded thoroughfare, Steve noticed they were only doing twenty in a forty mile-per-hour zone and thought the man seemed extremely pensive; not about the road or weather, but something else.

He pulled his gaze from the gauge cluster and eyed a foot-wide strip of two-by-four mounted to the dashboard in front of the passenger seat.

How the hell did I miss that? he wondered, and nudged his buddy, motioning with his head toward the oddity.

Glancing at the wood block, Rick shrugged and shot him a comical, I don't know what the fuck it is either look.

Their journey south continued in eerie silence; not a word spoken. For Steve, each uncomfortable minute felt like an hour.

From out of the blue, the driver began chanting aloud, babbling garbled gibberish in a sing-song fashion.

Wide-eyed, Steve turned to Rick, who was staring out the side window trying not to laugh.

Soon, the mantra ceased and the only sounds inside the car were that of heavy drops splattering against the windshield as the wipers beat their melodic tune akin to a huge metronome: Swoosh …swoosh … swoosh.

With the heater running full blast, the temperature inside had become excessively warm, and Steve detected the faint tang of body odor - it reminded him of the funky scent emitted when a person was nervous. His nostrils flared in protest at the sour metallic smell.

Every so often the man glanced in his direction as though conducting an inspection, then his eyes would dart away like a hummingbird.

It didn’t take long before the tension became palpable, almost stifling.

Steve saw the same concern etched on Rick’s face and pondered what to do next? His sixth sense screamed, Get the fuck out. Now!

Taking heed from his inner voice, as they approached the red stoplight, he said, Mister, you can drop us off here instead of Airdrome.

As if reading his mind, Rick chimed in. Yeah, right. We need to stop at the grocery store, he said hastily, pointing to the Mayfair Market. I’ve got buy a pack of smokes before going home.

Eyes agog, the man glared menacingly at Rick, then blinked several times as though awakened from a dream.

No problem, boys. I’ll let you off on the other side of the road where it’s safer.

The light changed and they drove toward an unlit area where two overhead streetlamps had long burned out. The Chevy glided curbside seventy-five feet past the intersection and gradually came to rest.

BANG!

A loud crack suddenly echoed through the interior, and Rick screamed out, Owwww! My back! I think I've been shot.

CHAPTER 1

LOREN

July 1961

PROJECT LIST

HUNCHED OVER THE dining room table, twenty-three-year-old Loren Neestrom carefully reviewed his Project List.

Scanning the dog-eared legal-size sheet line-by-line, he paused at Item 21. His tapered finger brushed over the number several times, and a corner of his mouth rose ever so slightly - the visual of two unsuspecting boys trapped inside his car popped into his thoughts. They’ll never suspect what’s in store for them, he mused.

The list was the first of thirty pages inside the faded-blue three-ring binder. The remaining twenty-nine detailed aspects of his treatise, a scheme conceived at eighteen, and by the time he turned twenty-one, it was typed into written form.

Although it had taken him years of meticulous preparation, the mounting anticipation of executing the plan taxed his patience with increased regularity, especially when dealing with his freaky mother.

So very sexy, he whispered, perplexed how a natural beauty could be so diabolically wicked. Thanks for passing along your fucked-up genes, bitch.

After closing the folder, he focused his attention on the set of hand-drawn blueprints he created while at work.

Unrolling one of the unwieldy thirty-six by twenty-four-inch faded sheets, he spread it over the grey Formica tabletop in the kitchen of his modest three-bedroom apartment he shared with his mother, Eleanor Neestrom, and nana, Annie Shanks.

Their rundown colonial-style fourplex on Juanita Place was in the seedier section of Hollywood’s eastern fringe, well removed from the glitz and glamour associated with the entertainment capital of the world.

The whoosh from behind caught him off guard.

WHACK!

You looking at naked girls again? his mother bellowed while delivering a vicious knuckle-rap to his head.

Her pale-blue eyes widened with madness: How many times do I have to tell you? They’re pure evil; nothing but a bunch of filthy sluts to poison your mind and take you from me!

Exceptionally attractive at forty-three, most people never saw Eleanor’s dark side, a woman with a penchant for sadistic perversion and an insatiable libido from a scarred childhood.

Or the part that surfaced when she failed to take her doses of Thorazine and miscellaneous psychotropic drugs. During those lapses, her rants would escalate for no reason and she’d scream at Loren with ear-piercing shrieks, distorting her angelic face. At times, her entire body would twitch while she made brushing motions with her hands down the sides of her legs as if warding off some imaginary creature assailing her torso.

Slowly, Loren turned away in a feeble attempt to fight back the nefarious hold she had on him and lowered his eyes in submission. Even though he towered over her petite frame, he always cringed under her icy gaze and caustic voice.

With his head bowed like a passive dog, he flashed back to the only time he had mustered the courage to escape her psychological grip….

****

A WEEK AFTER his eighteenth birthday, Loren and his mother and grandmother were at the table having their usual Friday night dinner of fish and chips.

In a hurry to catch an episode of Rawhide, one of his favorite television shows starring hunky Clint Eastwood, he hurriedly gobbled down his food and excused himself.

All through supper he observed his mother’s stilted body language, sensing she was on the verge of exploding with a drunken tirade.

Proving his instincts right, her piercing voice soon cut through the air, drowning out Rowdy Yates during a tense gunfight scene.

From what he overheard, the outburst was directed at nana - quite often Eleanor would lash out and blame Annie for unthinkable things that occurred to her as a precocious adolescent … things involving her depraved father.

Irritated by the disruption, Loren hauled his hulk off the tattered sofa and marched into the kitchen, only to witness an attack on the one person he genuinely cared about - everyone else in his life meant nothing, superfluous objects to be used or abused.

He spotted his grandmother clutching a lace handkerchief in her withered hands while tears cascaded down her cheeks.

More than he could bear, his face flushed as he watched her being emotionally ripped apart.

A sudden rage surged through him when several of his malevolent alter-egos howled in unison: KILL MOTHER! SMASH HER FACE IN!

Out-of-control, he lunged at Eleanor, catching her by the throat.

Filled with pent-up hatred from a lifetime of physical exploitation, he slammed her against the wall and squeezed her neck with one hand while effortlessly hoisting her off the ground so they were face-to-face.

With his mouth mere inches from hers, their lips almost touching: "You ungrateful twat! Don’t you ever talk