Tearing The Shroud by JM Bray

few hours of it. He lay there in his t-shirt and boxers, his head off to one side, neck bent unnaturally. An apron of thickened blood covered his chest from the cut across his throat, which had nearly decapitated him. A red mural of San Diego harbor decorated the wall next to the tub. In it, medieval buildings replaced the modern architecture. Looking at the painting, he tilted his head and rubbed his chin. He plucked a brush off the counter, dabbed it against Bill’s chest and added a flag to the top of a tower. At the lower right hand corner he wrote Callendel . ‘There, that’s what was missing. Bill, any thoughts?’
    That’s the problem with the dead. They’re usually such poor conversationalists. ‘I suppose a shave will go better with my new suit. Thank you for that, by the way.’ He nodded at Bill. ‘Oh, and the credit cards, Rolex, Cadillac, cash, and, well everything. You certainly gave your all.’ He peered at first one side of his face then the other. ‘It’s a shame that convincing you took such a difficult turn.’ Bending down, he retrieved the ball gag from the floor where he had dropped it earlier, kicking the pieces of Bill’s amputated fingers to the side. He sighed. ‘It could have been so much easier.’
    The rich...they so often confuse affluence with power. He picked up the sleek hunting knife and shook the tip toward the bathtub, while still examining himself in the mirror. ‘A lesson learned, Bill, a lesson learned.’
    He lathered his face with soap and shaved quickly, the knife gliding across his skin, never cutting anything but whiskers. ‘Ah, a good shave, glad we went that way. Don’t you think, Bill?’ After rinsing his face, he washed in the sink then walked back into the dingy room. As he passed the TV, the blonde woman calmly described a home invasion in University Heights that left a wealthy couple dead.
    ‘Their mutilated corpses were discovered this morning by the gardener, where they had been posed reclining in chaise lounges by the pool.’ She spoke with a serious demeanor that never reached her eyes, her overly white teeth flashing.
    Singing tunelessly, ‘Busy, busy, busy,’ he put on his new suit. He’d chosen well; it was a perfect fit. ‘I told you we were the same size,’ he called to the bathroom. The shoes were another matter; they were much too small. First stop today will be shopping . He put the money clip stuffed with hundred dollar bills into his pants pocket. A folded knife went in one breast pocket and the calfskin wallet in the other. One last look in the mirror. He looked, smiling. ‘Hi, I’m Bill, Bill Wilson.’ He slipped the sheathed hunting knife into his newly acquired briefcase.
    ‘Well, I’m off, Bill. Thanks again.’ He waved as he walked toward the door. ‘Oh my, I nearly forgot.’ Taking the wallet out, he looked at the driver’s license. A much livelier Bill smiled up at him. ‘This won’t do,’ he said running his thumb over the photo. As it passed, the picture transformed. His face now occupied the ID. ‘There we are.’ He stepped out and closed the door behind him.
    She was right, another sunny day in the southland.

Chapter 7
    It’s Just a Game
Fall 1984
San Diego, California
    When they arrived outside an empty classroom in one of the older sections of the campus, the rest of the group was waiting. The fog was so dense Vincent was unable to see them until they were within a few feet. All of them except Julie looked damp and uncomfortable in the water-laden air. She was wrapped snugly in a forest green hooded cloak that repelled the water and framed her face in stark relief. She looked like an enchantress, beautiful, seductive, and mystical. Their eyes met. A smile played at the edges of her mouth and the fog swirled. The two of them stood transfixed by one another. Everything around them faded. His nerves didn’t assault him, his heart didn’t pound; with Julie, the norms all fell by the way. This, this is how it