wrong?” Vlada said.
Hans had returned from the car.
“I mean,” Vlada said, “you found out that you have cancer so you hire an expensive prostitute, have some angry sex and then destroy her face. You see, it all makes sense.”
“What right do you—“ Stemple started.
He jumped when he felt the stinging sensation on the right side of his neck.
He turned and stared at Hans, who was taking a step backward and holding a syringe.
“What have you—wha—?“ Stemple attempted to say, before he felt his heart race for the final time.
Hans caught him effortlessly and dragged him into the seat of the BMW. He then went about smoothing the trail of heel marks that led up to the car.
“We could just leave him here, Dante. Who would ever doubt that this pig fell victim to a heart attack?” Hans said.
“That is true enough,” Vlada said, as he pulled a spool of fishing line from his pocket. Hans held out his hand. Vlada looked at him and smiled.
“I will prefer the personal touch this evening, Hans. My introduction to Graham Stemple was a pivotal moment for our operation. It would be unfitting that our last moments together be merely another delegated task.”
Vlada prepared Stemple’s car for its final drive. He tied a length of fishing line around the gear selector and turned the steering wheel slightly toward a stand of large trees. He then propped Stemple’s foot to hold the accelerator pedal to the floor and pulled on the line, dropping the powerful car into gear.
“I’ll get the car,” Hans said. “It is going to be a long night. Perhaps we should have made Stemple dispose of the girl first. The stench now reaches into the passenger area.”
“Ah, the futility of the human condition,” Vlada said. “The quality of flesh that once commanded a thousand dollars for the privilege of a two minute penetration—hours later is nothing more than a snack for hungry crustaceans.”
Watching Stemple’s car speed to a fiery end, Vlada said,
“The drug in the syringe was for our benefit as well as Mr. Stemple’s. A fiery car crash provides a more vivid and lasting nightmare for his step-son. The money, Hans?”
“All taken care of,” Hans said. “Stemple had four separate off-shore accounts and according to his latest net searches, he was preparing to disappear within days.”
“Well, he won’t have need of those now , will he, my friend?” Vlada said. “As acting executor of Graham Stemple’s unofficial will and testament, I hereby promise to make very good use of his fortune.”
Eight
J ack pulled open the door of the bar as the sun set behind the mountains. The bartender recognized him immediately and dropped his bar rag. He formed his hands into a letter “T”.
“Hey, it’s Time-Out Jack, everybody. Come on in, buddy. Are we having the usual?”
“You got it, Lenny. ‘Time-out’ beer for ‘Time-Out’ Jack,” Jack said, sliding onto a corner stool at the bar.
Jack was making no excuses to anyone. This was the fifth weekend in a row that he had driven up to this little remote village in New Hampshire. He booked two nights at a variety of different bed-and-breakfasts; some of these were the same places he had first visited with Helen a lot of years ago. But his needs were completely different now.
He didn’t try to reason with himself during the process, because he knew good and well that what he was doing was wrong. But that didn’t really matter and he didn’t really care. He would either get through this or he wouldn’t; simple enough.
I can either turn off the drinking or it gets the best of me , he thought. For the time being, he had no intention of facing his thoughts while staying sober twenty-four hours a day and seven days a week.
No mental health professional will condone that plan, so I won’t consult one .
Jack spent his weekends in this quaint little village—drinking heavily on Friday and Saturday nights with a
Hans had returned from the car.
“I mean,” Vlada said, “you found out that you have cancer so you hire an expensive prostitute, have some angry sex and then destroy her face. You see, it all makes sense.”
“What right do you—“ Stemple started.
He jumped when he felt the stinging sensation on the right side of his neck.
He turned and stared at Hans, who was taking a step backward and holding a syringe.
“What have you—wha—?“ Stemple attempted to say, before he felt his heart race for the final time.
Hans caught him effortlessly and dragged him into the seat of the BMW. He then went about smoothing the trail of heel marks that led up to the car.
“We could just leave him here, Dante. Who would ever doubt that this pig fell victim to a heart attack?” Hans said.
“That is true enough,” Vlada said, as he pulled a spool of fishing line from his pocket. Hans held out his hand. Vlada looked at him and smiled.
“I will prefer the personal touch this evening, Hans. My introduction to Graham Stemple was a pivotal moment for our operation. It would be unfitting that our last moments together be merely another delegated task.”
Vlada prepared Stemple’s car for its final drive. He tied a length of fishing line around the gear selector and turned the steering wheel slightly toward a stand of large trees. He then propped Stemple’s foot to hold the accelerator pedal to the floor and pulled on the line, dropping the powerful car into gear.
“I’ll get the car,” Hans said. “It is going to be a long night. Perhaps we should have made Stemple dispose of the girl first. The stench now reaches into the passenger area.”
“Ah, the futility of the human condition,” Vlada said. “The quality of flesh that once commanded a thousand dollars for the privilege of a two minute penetration—hours later is nothing more than a snack for hungry crustaceans.”
Watching Stemple’s car speed to a fiery end, Vlada said,
“The drug in the syringe was for our benefit as well as Mr. Stemple’s. A fiery car crash provides a more vivid and lasting nightmare for his step-son. The money, Hans?”
“All taken care of,” Hans said. “Stemple had four separate off-shore accounts and according to his latest net searches, he was preparing to disappear within days.”
“Well, he won’t have need of those now , will he, my friend?” Vlada said. “As acting executor of Graham Stemple’s unofficial will and testament, I hereby promise to make very good use of his fortune.”
Eight
J ack pulled open the door of the bar as the sun set behind the mountains. The bartender recognized him immediately and dropped his bar rag. He formed his hands into a letter “T”.
“Hey, it’s Time-Out Jack, everybody. Come on in, buddy. Are we having the usual?”
“You got it, Lenny. ‘Time-out’ beer for ‘Time-Out’ Jack,” Jack said, sliding onto a corner stool at the bar.
Jack was making no excuses to anyone. This was the fifth weekend in a row that he had driven up to this little remote village in New Hampshire. He booked two nights at a variety of different bed-and-breakfasts; some of these were the same places he had first visited with Helen a lot of years ago. But his needs were completely different now.
He didn’t try to reason with himself during the process, because he knew good and well that what he was doing was wrong. But that didn’t really matter and he didn’t really care. He would either get through this or he wouldn’t; simple enough.
I can either turn off the drinking or it gets the best of me , he thought. For the time being, he had no intention of facing his thoughts while staying sober twenty-four hours a day and seven days a week.
No mental health professional will condone that plan, so I won’t consult one .
Jack spent his weekends in this quaint little village—drinking heavily on Friday and Saturday nights with a
Similar Books
