Murder My Love (Kindle Books Mystery and Suspense Crime Thrillers Series Book 3) by Tad S. Torm Page A
Authors: Tad S. Torm
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him down with half a bottle of whiskey, which combined with the strong sedative he received in his blood five hours ago, will almost certainly ensure that he'll die a happy man.
There is no other river like the Saint-Elmo on the East Coast of the Atlantic. I believe there is one on the South Pacific Coast, but that one is too remote for my purpose.
The scientists gave the river its freedom back. They wanted to study it. They removed the dams and demolished the levees. Now the Saint-Elmo knows no boundaries. Unlike other rivers in the civilized Universe, Saint-Elmo can do whatever it pleases whenever he wants to, she can flood its shores or he can dry out completely and disappear if she wants to, like his grand-grandparents, the river Gods and Goddesses of Antiquity.
I know a perfect place on the itinerary of this free stream where the Van den Liebers and their chauffeur can finally find the peace they so amply deserve.
I'm driving them toward their doom and don't speak much while the Van den Liebers cringe in the back of the limousine, shaking in their boots.
They ask questions of me, from time to time, and I respond as I can in my funny Zingovian accent.
"Why did Jack want to see us? What is this assassin he talks about?"
"Killer from Europe come get you killed. Jack try protect you if he can."
"Can't we give him money to leave us alone?"
"No. Do not think so. Is professional killer. Don't need your money."
"Is it because of Pete?"
"Don't know. Wait for Mr. Jack. Mr. Jack tell you…"
But I finally have enough with this pantomime, this carousel in which I don't need any longer to play a part, and I think if there is somebody that deserves to be scared to death, then what better candidates could I find than the odious pair in the back?
"It's me. I am the killer, I am the assassin." I confess, a wide grin on my face. I try to cackle just a little bit; however, unlike the Zingovian accent, it doesn't work too well for me.
The Van den Liebers take a long time to understand that Zingor is not Zingor. Another accolade to my acting talents.
Eleanor even asks me:
"You are not Zingor, you sure?"
"Not Zingor."
But I really had enough of this comedy and don't say another word.
We stop at the water’s edge. The slope to the river is soft. The limousine will take some time to reach the water. But the bed of the river is deep. The occupants will drown quickly.
I get out, but leave the key in the engine. I open the trunk and haul the sleepy Zingor up onto his feet. I grab him by the waist and move him to the front. I sit him in his rightful place at the wheel. Then I place his foot on the gas pedal and press on it with my foot. I push the car down the slope, and when it starts moving I close the door and wait while the black limousine is slowly, slowly swallowed by the God River.
And when you think it all started because of true love between a rich heiress and a regular Joe. Her parents were afraid they would get hitched and they couldn't find a better solution than to kill my brother.
Boy. Aren't we humans an awful, odious lot?
Maybe the Fundies have it right after all.
Maybe we all deserve Hell.
--
Another six months pass by.
I'm leading a solitary life.
I always enjoyed being on my own, living inside my mind.
I never thought of myself as lonely. Not until Lana came into my life. Now, what used to be a privilege has turned into a weakness.
I still think of her, I think of her all the time, but I'm slowly getting reconciled to the realization that when she left, it was to disappear forever from my life, and I slowly get used to the idea that I will never see her again.
One day the phone rings. I have a chilly feeling in my gut as I pick it up.
"Greg?"
It's Lana; I'm hearing her sweet-sounding voice.
Doesn't it sound a little bit stressed out, though?
"Lana?"
"Greg, I want to see you. Can you come to me?"
"Lana, why did you leave? Lana, where did you go?"
"It's complicated. Let's talk
There is no other river like the Saint-Elmo on the East Coast of the Atlantic. I believe there is one on the South Pacific Coast, but that one is too remote for my purpose.
The scientists gave the river its freedom back. They wanted to study it. They removed the dams and demolished the levees. Now the Saint-Elmo knows no boundaries. Unlike other rivers in the civilized Universe, Saint-Elmo can do whatever it pleases whenever he wants to, she can flood its shores or he can dry out completely and disappear if she wants to, like his grand-grandparents, the river Gods and Goddesses of Antiquity.
I know a perfect place on the itinerary of this free stream where the Van den Liebers and their chauffeur can finally find the peace they so amply deserve.
I'm driving them toward their doom and don't speak much while the Van den Liebers cringe in the back of the limousine, shaking in their boots.
They ask questions of me, from time to time, and I respond as I can in my funny Zingovian accent.
"Why did Jack want to see us? What is this assassin he talks about?"
"Killer from Europe come get you killed. Jack try protect you if he can."
"Can't we give him money to leave us alone?"
"No. Do not think so. Is professional killer. Don't need your money."
"Is it because of Pete?"
"Don't know. Wait for Mr. Jack. Mr. Jack tell you…"
But I finally have enough with this pantomime, this carousel in which I don't need any longer to play a part, and I think if there is somebody that deserves to be scared to death, then what better candidates could I find than the odious pair in the back?
"It's me. I am the killer, I am the assassin." I confess, a wide grin on my face. I try to cackle just a little bit; however, unlike the Zingovian accent, it doesn't work too well for me.
The Van den Liebers take a long time to understand that Zingor is not Zingor. Another accolade to my acting talents.
Eleanor even asks me:
"You are not Zingor, you sure?"
"Not Zingor."
But I really had enough of this comedy and don't say another word.
We stop at the water’s edge. The slope to the river is soft. The limousine will take some time to reach the water. But the bed of the river is deep. The occupants will drown quickly.
I get out, but leave the key in the engine. I open the trunk and haul the sleepy Zingor up onto his feet. I grab him by the waist and move him to the front. I sit him in his rightful place at the wheel. Then I place his foot on the gas pedal and press on it with my foot. I push the car down the slope, and when it starts moving I close the door and wait while the black limousine is slowly, slowly swallowed by the God River.
And when you think it all started because of true love between a rich heiress and a regular Joe. Her parents were afraid they would get hitched and they couldn't find a better solution than to kill my brother.
Boy. Aren't we humans an awful, odious lot?
Maybe the Fundies have it right after all.
Maybe we all deserve Hell.
--
Another six months pass by.
I'm leading a solitary life.
I always enjoyed being on my own, living inside my mind.
I never thought of myself as lonely. Not until Lana came into my life. Now, what used to be a privilege has turned into a weakness.
I still think of her, I think of her all the time, but I'm slowly getting reconciled to the realization that when she left, it was to disappear forever from my life, and I slowly get used to the idea that I will never see her again.
One day the phone rings. I have a chilly feeling in my gut as I pick it up.
"Greg?"
It's Lana; I'm hearing her sweet-sounding voice.
Doesn't it sound a little bit stressed out, though?
"Lana?"
"Greg, I want to see you. Can you come to me?"
"Lana, why did you leave? Lana, where did you go?"
"It's complicated. Let's talk
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