Need a good weekend read? Though there is no mention of green beer, my best-seller TERMINAL VALUE is on sale for only $1.99 at the Amazon Kindle store. Excerpt: Little is spoken after the facts come out. Besides, the weapon says it all, the silencer so long and bold and beautiful. So foreboding. Or so it seems. Still, a trembling voice asks, “What are you doing?” Isn’t that obvious? Two sets of footsteps sound on the oak floor. One advances, the other retreats. “Keep going.” The command is not loud, and it is issued with a complement of smiles, as if to soften the undue burden to come. They stop in the living room. “Turn around.” Again, said softly with a smile, as if forgiveness might yet be won. But now the babbling begins. It is not unexpected. “Shush.” A finger to the lips. The softest command. “Shush.” “Turn around.” The voice edgier now, perhaps an octave higher than absolute ease would allow. For the first time, it sounds murderous. “On your knees.” Execution style? The back of the head? But the babbler doesn’t ask those questions. The babbler pleads and kneels. At least it will be fast. The temptation to offer solace is great—because it is such a lie. The babbler begs for mercy. But with so much at stake, mercy is in short supply. Surely you know this. The muzzle nestles neatly in the back of the neck, near the seat of the reptilian brain. The babbler, head down, cringes next to a small coffee table, a carefully planned placement. It is a sturdy table of steel and ironwood, so simple yet it can be so damaging. The gun subdued the babbler, but the table is the weapon of choice. With a quick effort, it is lifted high and provides a solid blow. The babbler’s head snaps forward. The legs keel. And then the body is rolled over. I have to see you. The heart still beats. Listen to it: Thumpety-thump. Thumpety-thump.An ear lowers to a familiar chest. A familiar scent rises. And familiar eyes gaze emptily at the blank ceiling above. The babbler’s survival is not unexpected, though if death had come easily, that would have been fine. But the table’s brutal duty is done. It rests on its side, another carefully planned placement. Forensics will want to examine it, as they should. But the “accident” is hardly over, for there is a workroom with a black rubber mat that has even more to offer—a heavy-duty electric cord lying unplugged on a bench right below a large circuit box. The bench is also crowded with tools, switches, gadgets galore, and—best of all—a cable stripper that gleams boldly, its edge as sharp as the intruder’s greed. The insulation strips away easily, but with great care. Not a drop of blood can be left behind. The shavings are a different matter: every shred lies on the bench. The naked copper at the end of the cord is now a candidate for a new, heavier duty socket, which is left in its packaging next to the shavings—and offers the unstated explanation for an exposed cable in an otherwise safe workspace. The cord is hauled to the living room and looped around the babbler’s arm. Every step has been thought out so precisely that it’s a pleasure to see it unfold so seamlessly: The babbler carried the hazardous cord, tripped and fell, and struck the table. Elvis Costello plays in memory: “Accidents will happen….” Yes, accidents. Plural. The plug at the other end of the cord enters an outlet. Sparks fly as the exposed copper whips around like a snake, feeding on the chest, right where the heart drums. A dazzling display of blue arcs then shoots across the torso, crackling again and again as the copper makes contact with the body. The sounds are nothing less than splendid, like kernels of popping corn bursting apart their hard shells. Fried alive—and that’s a fact. Tendrils of smoke drift away and—miracle of wonder—snake from the dead nostrils. The body lies splayed on the floor, lifeless but still roasting. The left arm is raised stiffly, as if seeking the blessings of heaven. But the face has been frozen with terror and pain, beckoning only hell. Now a different retreat ensues, back to the vestibule, then outside to the darkness and rain. A gloved hand closes the door, strips off the crime scene booties, and pockets them. The key is returned to its hidey hole. Freedom is only a few steps away. It is taken with assurance and confidence. It is taken as handily as life itself….
Posted on: Sat, 15 Mar 2014 12:46:08 +0000
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