And he hit the floor with a loud
She looked down at her fallen ex, who was shaking his head, trying to regain some sense of self. “You deserve that you son of a bitch,” she spat. “Don’t you ever touch me again!”
She located the textbook, which had skittered beneath the sofa, and bent down to retrieve it. After straightening up, Vail heard movement behind her and started to turn—
But Deacon grabbed her ankles and twisted and she fell back, landing sideways on the couch.
Looking at him, his eyes still distant and vacant: she yanked her right leg free and kicked him in the face, a swift shot intensified by the heel of her shoe. A moan escaped from Deacon’s bloody lips and he fell back to the floor.
Vail pushed herself off the couch and stood over her stunned ex-husband. Then kicked him in the ribs, for good measure. “I mean it, Deacon. You come near me again, I’ll kill you.”
OUTSIDE, VAIL SAT IN HER CAR, her heart pounding, her strength gone, her mind racing, on the verge of tears. The squeal of brakes from a nearby delivery truck put her back on track. She found her keys, tossed the book onto the seat beside her, and started the engine.
She thought of the last time she drove down this road . . . beaten, dazed, and frazzled. A victim.
But at the moment, Deacon was the one beaten and dazed. And she had to admit, it felt much better this way.
He sent off his message but had not yet received a response. He ended up having to do some thinking, let alone a lot of research, to make it work. He could’ve just haphazardly thrown his writings out there, but what’s the sense in that? No, he had to do it just right. The proper tool is key to honing your work. A painter could no more create a finely detailed landscape with a wide brush than a photographer could capture the close-up beauty of a flower with a box camera. The right tools for the right jobs.
Which got him to thinking . . . tools weren’t the only things that mattered. Presentation was critical. Would an artiste display his most precious work in a basement somewhere, where no one could see it? Or would he look for the right stand, the proper lighting to emphasize its attributes, the best setting for his piece? A writer must do the same. What good would his work do sitting on a hard drive locked away in a computer? So he spent the time to do it right . . . such things can’t be rushed. After all, patience is a virtue.
They’ll react. They have to.
The neighbor’s dog was barking and that made it hard to concentrate. He sat at the computer and nothing came out. Was this writer’s block? He’d read about that, where you stare at the blank screen and can’t write anything. He was no writer, at least he never thought he was, but that goddamn cocker spaniel had been hitting the same pitch and rhythm for the past fifteen minutes.
He had the urge to go next door and drive a knife through its fucking brain, end the incessant noise.
Yet annoying as it was, it was something he was able to control. He could stop himself from killing the dog because it was a lower form of life—and therefore worthy of some mercy. It knows not what it does.
But when it came to the bitch-whores, he couldn’t help himself. He finally realized he didn’t want to, because it defined the very essence of who he was. It took him a while to understand that. Once he did, he knew how to satisfy the desire, the need for more. For satisfaction.
No, it was more than that. It was an uncontrollable urge.
It was something only he understood. He’d never tried to make others feel what he felt, because he knew they wouldn’t, or couldn’t. He accepted that. He accepted that he was different—and that even his inner self would never accept him for who he was.
So be it. He’d gotten comfortable with who he’d become. No longer would someone control his life, dictate when he could do the things he wanted to do. He’d learned how to free himself. Freedom was one of the most valued rights of our great country, and it took him years to learn how to find it. So much more the reason to savor it.
But perhaps the best freedom of all is that no one has stopped him from fulfilling his needs. Because they couldn’t. No one could find him. He had the perfect hiding place, the perfect disguise. And no matter how hard they searched, no matter what places they looked, he wasn’t there.
The dog’s bark quickened for a moment, the change in rhythm breaking the monotony. Someone strange was near. If there was one thing he looked for in a potential target, it was the absence of a dog. He could kill the dog, that wasn’t the problem—first time he did that he was about thirteen, maybe fourteen. The problem was that the damn thing would bark and he didn’t need the noise. Or the hassle of possibly getting bitten. It was just easier to avoid them.
He walked to his door in time to see the FedEx delivery person heading toward his stoop, a box wedged beneath her arm. As the woman was reaching for the buzzer, he pulled the door open. Ms. FedEx jumped backward.
He sniffed deeply, smelled fear. A dense odor, putrid almost, and moist . . . a familiar scent he’d sampled far too many times to count ... and it was oozing from this slut’s pores like sweat. Must’ve scared the crap out of her.
He signed for the package, and as he was taking it, Ms. FedEx squinted a bit when looking at him. He hated when people did that. It’s just damned rude. He dismissed the delivery person—she didn’t realize how lucky she was—and grabbed a pair of scissors, then took to the box with the excitement of a child descending the stairs on Christmas morning.
After clearing away the packing, he saw his new tool . . . lying in the box, propped up and ready for use. He removed the stun gun and read the advertising panels. Some guys get excited over drills and power saws and screwdrivers. For him, a useful tool has to do more. It has to help him define his freedom. That’s the way he looked at it. This was his freedom tool.
He glanced at the instruction manual. Not as precise a resource as he’d like it to have been. There was more mumbo jumbo lawyer junk to head off liability claims if the unit was used improperly than about the operation of the damn thing.
Downstairs, the cocker spaniel barked again.
He looked down at the stun gun in his hands and instantly felt the spark of excitement inside his chest. He would try out his new tool on the dog. Lower species or not, it was going to get the jolt of its life.
He felt the balance of the precisely machined device and realized the power harnessed in its small, black rectangular body.
The right tool for the right job.
State Senator Eleanor Linwood sat behind her massive, highly polished mahogany desk. Her auburn hair had been colored and re-cut this morning, then gelled and sprayed into place. A man, bent at her side, swiped a makeup brush across the gentle folds of her neck, attempting to lessen their prominence for the TV cameras. With gold reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose, she read aloud the lines her speechwriter had prepared. “And let me state right here and now—”
“Senator.” Chief-of-staff Levar Wilson was standing in the doorway, sheaves of dog-eared papers clutched in both hands. “What are you doing?”
She waved off the man applying the makeup. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m practicing, for the press conference.”
