DARK THRILLERS-A Box Set of Suspense Novels (41 page)

Breaking the first dish, a saucer, was the sprinkle before the deluge, the stream before the gullywasher. The glass sprayed out across the floor, shards of pure white splinters thin as toothpicks. Beautiful.

More dishes followed, crashing into the wall, the stovetop, the refrigerator door, the floor, until there were nests of splinters lying all about.

The Body felt blood pumping through the extended veins of arms and legs and forehead. Fury was coming. It hovered like a shy lover at the edge of the shadows, waiting to be lovingly called forward into embrace.

Slow down, control it, control it.

Pans had to come out from hiding in their shelves, foodstuffs had to tumble from cabinet doors, fresh food had to emerge from refrigerator shelves, frozen food from the freezer. All of it thrown, not just dumped, but thrown around the room, swinging the arms like windmills. And laughing, laughing to beat the band, what fun it all was!

The kitchen was done. Premium work. Much better than what had been carefully arranged on the set today. You couldn't arrange chaos. You had to become a part of it and let it possess you. Movie making was magic, was artifice. The real thing was so much more invigorating.

Steady, slow down, take a step back, survey.

But still the blood pumped and the veins stood out blue and pulsing and the heart thump-thumped crazily. It was all building and The Body knew in the deepest core of being that there was no turning back now. There was no human control on earth that could stop what was coming.

Hurrying into the living room, The Body let the frenzy take over though all the while the mind advised against it by crooning, Slow down, take it easy, do it right, don't let it bear you away.

Remembering the scene on the soundstage, The Body took up sofa pillows and ripped them with a knife lifted from a kitchen drawer. The phone and attached answering machine were ripped from the wall and thrown across the room. The sliding glass patio door took a chair to the midsection and crackled into a spider web of safety glass. Break the coffee table's legs off, smash it, stomp it!

It was too late, too late to hold back now.

A spare bedroom for guests, turned into garbage, the bed cut open and leaking stuffing. The drawers pulled out and broken into pieces. The blinds left hanging like Medusa snakes from the windows.

Then into the bath where everything in the medicine cabinet was thrown so hard, jar by container by bottle, that noxious liquids and salves gushed and split open and sprayed across the wide mirror. A roll of toilet paper was stuffed and stomped into the toilet, which was then flushed so that water ran over onto the floor.

In a small study the books were ripped from shelves and their pages torn and thrown like confetti into the air while The Body laughed hysterically, having now given in to the rage, and become lost totally to the rush of destruction.

Karl's bedroom saved for last, his clothes taken from their hangers in the closet and ripped into streamers with the kitchen knife. His drawers torn out and dumped in the center of the floor, the mattress wrenched off the box springs. The Body threw itself onto the leaning mattress and, accompanied by a growling that sounded like an animal about to rip open a new asshole for an enemy, the knife flashed into the stuffing, slashing at it, slashing it into deep volcanic crevices of darkness.

The Body rolled from the mattress and got upright again. There were tears on The Body's face. The mind was gone, having given in to the sheer exhilarating horror of physical violence. Unlike the scene shot on Cam's film set, this was no movie, this was no script, this was no idle entertainment, oh no.

It was death in the making. It was the sign pointing toward the coming of death splendiferous.

Black hatred infused The Body with the strength of Goliath. There was a big chair to overturn, a heavy-framed picture to rip down from its perch and send sailing into a wall.

And then the ultimate release of pent-up passion.

The Body dropped the knife from a gloved fist and shivered for a moment in ecstasy. With eyes closed and teeth gritted, The Body felt the first wave of urgency. Eyes flew open and the legs moved The Body faster and faster from the bedroom to the living room, tripping over downed furniture that lay spread-eagled and dead and broken. Then the legs helped The Body lurch into the wall.

The shock of contact shook The Body's bones and rattled the teeth.

Again. Backing up, running at the wall, just as the cameraman had done, running like a fullback for the goal, head down to chest and . . .

The Body found itself on the floor and crawled to bruised knees. Felt the tiny stream of blood coming from somewhere on the scalp. Took the blood and smeared it over the cheekbones and lips, yes, over the lips now, so as to taste the thrill of madness.

Up again, shakily, head pounding with pain, flinging the body forward to the wall once more, slamming into it, crashing from the side with the arms bent and held together so that the wall cracked and gave, plaster crumbling to the carpet.

Backing away, stumbling backwards, ramming the wall with the back so hard that the head snapped forward. Finally, it was upon The Body, attendant to it; the demon of lunacy everlasting so that all thought fled the brain and there was nothing in the world but the walls; the walls, and the body slamming into them, bouncing off them, falling and getting up and slamming into them again.

And again.

And again.

When the heat of fury sighed into the realization of physical limits, The Body stopped abruptly, seeing for the first time not only the ruined house, but the ruined person who stood in the house.

That's when The Body left, shaking all over as if from palsy, and drove away, satisfied the scene had been played exactly right. More perfect than any actor pretending madness on a painted set, with false props and breakaway boards and glass that would not cut.

If only Cam could have seen it. If only a cameraman had filmed it.

Blood dripped from The Body's forehead and there were red scrapes on the arms, but otherwise, nothing too harsh had been done to alter the health of the flesh.

Bruises could be covered and they would heal.

Not so easily the rents in Karl LaRosa's life. Those would never heal. They would only split further to reveal the putridness and the unspeakable emptiness behind the veneer of a normal man leading a normal life.

The Body licked sore lips and swept back bloodied hair from the forehead. The drive home was long and served to cool the blood, calm the system.

The evening had been more exciting than any before it. How could this be topped in the script?

Easy now, slow down, take it way down. Squelch all the noise and listen to your own advice, The Body thought.

Get home first, safe and sound, take a long hot bath, with the head resting on the cool white rim of the tub. Review the scene in quiet contemplation. Give yourself a rest. A pat on the back. You did so well. You were not controlled, but you completed the scene with Oscar-winning zeal.

You deserve a rest.

22

"The passion for destruction is also a creative passion."

Mikhail Bakunin, Reaction in Germany

Karl stood at the door leading into the kitchen from the garage. He stared dumbfounded at what had been done to his home. First anger came at the sense of invasion and total destruction. This was followed by a deep, compelling sadness that the human race could be so vengeful, that it knew no bounds when it came to retribution for perceived wrongs—whether that perception might be based in fact or not.

He stepped over shards of glass, picking his way gingerly around cans of pinto beans and corn, through spilled Golden Grahams cereal, over dented pans and pots, melting ice cream cartons, thawing packages of fish, vegetables, and meats.

There was ketchup everywhere, like globules of darkening blood, streaks and spots of mustard on the stove top, grape juice splattered over cabinet doors and milk souring on the pale yellow walls.

In the living room it was worse. Stuffing lay about like drifts of snow over the broken tables and chairs. Moonlight spread across the fractured and webbed glass of the sliding doors like molten silver patterns of crocheted lace.

Karl made his way through all the other rooms, taking big deep breaths, sighing to himself, grieving for his possessions. A self-pity came over him, knowing that his beautiful things could be ruined so easily. His home was a shambles. He wished he could leave the house, re-enter it, and find everything perfect again.

He picked up a small glass paperweight in his study. It wasn't broken, but the bottom had a chip missing. He set it on the scarred desktop where it fell over and rolled until he caught it and mindlessly slipped it into the pocket of his slacks. The heavy round weight of it knocked against his thigh as he finished up seeing the mess in the bathroom. He lowered the toilet lid and sat down. He stared at the floor between his feet, at the unrolled toilet paper lying in ribbons there.

He should get up and try to do something about all this. He should unclog the toilet, clean up the smeared remains of mouthwash and toothpaste and liquid soap puddled over the countertop. He should pick up the food in the kitchen and mop the floor.

He should move out. Leave town. And never come back.

The courage to go on had to be found. Something to rattle him from his depression. He stood and walked through the rooms again, facing what he had to do. And where was the note? She always left him a note.

He made his way again to the study and looked around, thinking the note might be there. But there were too many papers, ripped books, sheets of the yellow pages. If the note was here, he would never find it.

In the bedroom, that's the most likely place it would be, he thought, and picked his way through the rubble there again. He scanned the room, eyeing everything carefully. Then he saw it. A creamy square of stationery lying on the floor at the foot of the bed. He might have overlooked it amid the clutter if he had not been searching for it.

He picked up the folded paper and gently opened it. Do you like it? the note read.

"What do you want?" Karl shouted as if the person who had written the note was present and could hear him. "What in the hell do you want with me?"

Why did you throw me away like garbage? You see the state of your house? That's how you left me, torn to pieces.

It's going to get worse for you. Much worse. You should have loved me better.

The note ended with the puerile Xs and Os, the kisses and rings of a warped personality. Karl strained to understand. H e must have inadvertently hurt someone horribly. He didn't remember hurting anyone that badly, but it must be true. If only he could remember who. And when. All this time he had tried to decipher the actions taken against him to determine 'who might be doing it, but he just couldn't.

Earlier in the day he had gotten copies of his credit reports from two different credit agencies. He discovered many of his bills had been paid late, putting him into a category of credit abusers. But he had never been late paying his bills. Not that he knew about. He even drove to the agencies and talked to the people there. They insisted the reports were valid. He had not paid on his accounts with various creditors for months.

Karl made the agencies take a statement he signed stating be felt the reports were incorrect and that he had never made late payments in his life.

It would do no good, his statement. His credit was in the dumper. He didn't know how it was done. Any number of ways could have been used to ruin his credit rating.

Someone could have stolen his outgoing mail so his payments were never sent. That theory was the least believable since most of his bills were paid from the office in Burbank. Another way could have been found by someone hacking into the agencies' computers and altering information. This seemed possible. In a generation where computers handled all the information and records, a computer expert could easily do what he wished once he got through to a company's computer database, connected through a modem from his home computer. Or someone inside the agencies had been paid to falsify the information. That didn't seem feasible either, not at two major credit-reporting agencies.

It was all done electronically, he imagined. You couldn't get the agencies to believe such a thing. It meant admitting their computer systems had been broached. Rather than think themselves vulnerable, they would consider his idea to be just an accusation made by a bad credit risk.

His credit was ruined now. Nothing he could do to repair it. There was no way he could prove his files had been electronically changed.

His house all in ruins around him.

His clients leaving him right and left. Two more had ended their contracts with him today.

His office broken into and covered in blood. His employees nervous and jumpy.

Did this person who had done all these things to him want to make him crawl?

That was a good supposition. If he lost his credit and his clients, he would soon go out of business. Once a downward spiral started, how was Karl to stop it?

If he could only find out who was doing it. None of the women he had contacted seemed to even know what he was talking about, much less appear guilty of the acts. How far back in time should he go? How many women should he question? Five years, ten? Back to his college days or high school?

The worst of it was he suspected whoever could go to this much trouble was someone who would fool him if questioned face to face about it anyway. Anyone this determined could look him straight in the eyes and commiserate with him, even, and he wouldn't be able to tell. He'd never ferret out the culprit.

Yet he had to.

He looked around at the house with its contents torn and scattered and knew he had to. His life, his future, his peace of mind; everything depended on it.

He refolded the note and took it with him to the kitchen. He almost slipped in a puddle of melted vanilla ice cream, but caught the edge of the counter in time to stay his fall. He took up the wall telephone receiver and dialed a number. When the man answered, Karl said, "My house has been vandalized. It's in complete ruin."