closed drape.
Justice Breen sat near the sliding glass door to the cottage’s pri- vate garden, a fluted champagne glass in his hand. His bride stood near the center of the room. She wore a white thong, thigh-high black sheer stockings, red high heels, and a low-cut white halter top with tiny red bow ties around her neck and wrists. She ran her hand suggestively up the neck of the champagne bottle, then playfully eased her index finger around its head.
The groom reached for her. She backed away teasingly.
the third coincidence 53
A fist of tension balled in the watcher’s belly. His nerve endings tingled. When she bent down to refill the flutes, her butt protruded toward the window. Perspiration dotted his forehead like pimples on a teen. He reached inside his pants, taking himself in his hand.
He picked up a fallen pine branch, using it to rub out his tracks as he circled back to the path near the door. After rechecking the duct tape he had applied to seal the legs of his pants to his white athletic socks and his sleeve cuffs to his latex gloves, he reached out and knocked.
Breen’s voice boomed. “Who is it?”
Oh. Pudgy Judgy. Did I interrupt something?
“I have a delivery of flowers, sir.” “Who from?”
Confident Justice Breen would not refuse flowers from his new in-laws, he said, “The card reads, ‘from Mom and Dad Ashcroft.’ Do you want them, sir?” The watcher, anticipating that the judge would look out through the peephole, stepped back and held up the vase of flowers.
The door opened.
Breen’s eyes circled when the Colt 2000 appeared from behind the vase. His lips moved, but his first word drowned in the spit from the noise suppressor.
Breen’s black boxers twisted as he coiled unevenly against the carpet.
The shooter stepped closer and fired again, this time striking Breen in the forehead. After kicking the groom’s foot out of the way, he shut the door and looked for the bride. She was not in sight. As he started toward the glass slider, he heard a low vibrating sound, then saw light slicing out from under a side door.
Of course, she stepped into the bathroom when Judgy came to answer the door.
The narrow strip of light went dark and the fan died with a tinny whimper. The door opened. Judith came out, her halter top dan- gling from her fingers. The candlelight cast its shadowy hands across
54 David M. Bishop
her bare breasts. When she saw her husband on the floor, she opened her mouth to scream.
The silencer made no more sound than a woman’s leg sliding into a nylon stocking.
Judith collapsed against the wall. Her knees buckled. She went down. Dead.
He pulled the drape over to close the gap he had watched through, then held the candle closer and watched as the flickering light changed the look of her body.
Some sicko might have sex with her, but he would not. Time was of the essence. He needed to get back across the state line, and he couldn’t chance leaving his DNA behind. Instead he carried her to the bed, where he gently spread her soft hair on the pillow, cre- ating a loving yellow nimbus around her head. Then he rammed a long serrated knife up into her and felt his satisfaction gush.
He went through the judge’s wallet and the bride’s purse, re- moving anything identifying. The local cops would have only their names from hotel registration, which he felt confident the Breens had disguised in some manner to keep their honeymoon site secret from the media.
After blowing out the candles, he eased open the door, smelled the wet pines, and heard only silence. He picked up the vase of flow- ers, hung the do-not-disturb sign on the outside knob, and quietly reentered the world he was changing.
In today’s world, political power, sex, and gore guaranteed head- lines. This elimination, having all three, would quickly become his most publicized elimination. The FBI’s evidence response team would find hairs and fibers and secretions from countless honey- mooners, but
Justice Breen sat near the sliding glass door to the cottage’s pri- vate garden, a fluted champagne glass in his hand. His bride stood near the center of the room. She wore a white thong, thigh-high black sheer stockings, red high heels, and a low-cut white halter top with tiny red bow ties around her neck and wrists. She ran her hand suggestively up the neck of the champagne bottle, then playfully eased her index finger around its head.
The groom reached for her. She backed away teasingly.
the third coincidence 53
A fist of tension balled in the watcher’s belly. His nerve endings tingled. When she bent down to refill the flutes, her butt protruded toward the window. Perspiration dotted his forehead like pimples on a teen. He reached inside his pants, taking himself in his hand.
He picked up a fallen pine branch, using it to rub out his tracks as he circled back to the path near the door. After rechecking the duct tape he had applied to seal the legs of his pants to his white athletic socks and his sleeve cuffs to his latex gloves, he reached out and knocked.
Breen’s voice boomed. “Who is it?”
Oh. Pudgy Judgy. Did I interrupt something?
“I have a delivery of flowers, sir.” “Who from?”
Confident Justice Breen would not refuse flowers from his new in-laws, he said, “The card reads, ‘from Mom and Dad Ashcroft.’ Do you want them, sir?” The watcher, anticipating that the judge would look out through the peephole, stepped back and held up the vase of flowers.
The door opened.
Breen’s eyes circled when the Colt 2000 appeared from behind the vase. His lips moved, but his first word drowned in the spit from the noise suppressor.
Breen’s black boxers twisted as he coiled unevenly against the carpet.
The shooter stepped closer and fired again, this time striking Breen in the forehead. After kicking the groom’s foot out of the way, he shut the door and looked for the bride. She was not in sight. As he started toward the glass slider, he heard a low vibrating sound, then saw light slicing out from under a side door.
Of course, she stepped into the bathroom when Judgy came to answer the door.
The narrow strip of light went dark and the fan died with a tinny whimper. The door opened. Judith came out, her halter top dan- gling from her fingers. The candlelight cast its shadowy hands across
54 David M. Bishop
her bare breasts. When she saw her husband on the floor, she opened her mouth to scream.
The silencer made no more sound than a woman’s leg sliding into a nylon stocking.
Judith collapsed against the wall. Her knees buckled. She went down. Dead.
He pulled the drape over to close the gap he had watched through, then held the candle closer and watched as the flickering light changed the look of her body.
Some sicko might have sex with her, but he would not. Time was of the essence. He needed to get back across the state line, and he couldn’t chance leaving his DNA behind. Instead he carried her to the bed, where he gently spread her soft hair on the pillow, cre- ating a loving yellow nimbus around her head. Then he rammed a long serrated knife up into her and felt his satisfaction gush.
He went through the judge’s wallet and the bride’s purse, re- moving anything identifying. The local cops would have only their names from hotel registration, which he felt confident the Breens had disguised in some manner to keep their honeymoon site secret from the media.
After blowing out the candles, he eased open the door, smelled the wet pines, and heard only silence. He picked up the vase of flow- ers, hung the do-not-disturb sign on the outside knob, and quietly reentered the world he was changing.
In today’s world, political power, sex, and gore guaranteed head- lines. This elimination, having all three, would quickly become his most publicized elimination. The FBI’s evidence response team would find hairs and fibers and secretions from countless honey- mooners, but
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