The Electrician's Code

WiD
ō
Publishing
Salt Lake City, Utah
www.widopublishing.com

Copyright © 2014 by Clarissa Draper

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher.

Cover Design by Steven Novak
Book Design by Marny K. Parkin

Print ISBN 978-1-937178-56-7
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014908663

for Isaac

Chapter One

Monday June 17, 1991

C
reatures of habit are easier to catch, and beautiful Edie Grace was as predictable as a James Bond love affair. For three weeks, he studied her, peering into her life . . . her soul. He enjoyed her youthful movements, so graceful and delicious. She now belonged to him.

Through the front window, he watched Edie jump onto her sofa and sit cross-legged in front of the television. As an avid fan of
Wheel of Fortune,
her fisted hands move up and down in front of her chest as the wheel went round. As the needle passed every number, she mouthed
one thousand, one thousand
and finally called out a letter in turn.

G
as in girl.

He smiled. Yes, and what about B as in beautiful or D as in dead? Oh, the hours he had stood watching were about to end. Excitement filled his stomach and his heart beat rapidly. He longed to be inside—with her. No, he must be patient; he knew the perfect time.

Show over, she picked up the remote control and shut off the television. Her head fell and he knew she hated what she had to do next: cook herself dinner. From his current vantage point, he could only see half her kitchen, so he crawled around the side of the house and behind the perfect bush—a bush that hid him from the house, the neighbor’s house, and the street. It also had a perfect view of sweet Edie in the kitchen. He felt fortunate she wasn’t a gardener. Her bushes were allowed to grow out of control. Fifty men could hide in her gardens. The spot nearest the kitchen he had picked with care—he needed to be able to see her without her seeing him. The grass under his feet was worn down in the shape of a large cloud.

Edie opened the cupboard over the sink and chose the third book from the right—
Cooking for One.
She threw it down on the worktop and flipped through the pages one at a time.

No, no, no, she shook her head at each page. Occasionally she would pause, open her refrigerator, and rummage through. After a few seconds, the door would thump closed, rattling the glass bottles inside, and sh
e would flip through the pages of the cookbook again. Reaching the end of the book, she slammed it closed and pushed it off the edge of the kitchen worktop. Finally, she opened her freezer for a ready meal and after her oven was heated, placed it inside and left the room.

Soon.

He looked at his watch. About now she would be back on her sofa.

When he returned to the front, he bent down and retrieved a bag he had hidden under a bush. A large blue workbag filled with all the needed supplies. He felt round inside and pulled out a coil of wire neatly placed within. He slid his fingers along the entire span. Perfect as always.

With his gloved right hand, he slowly turned the handle to the front door. It opened easily and quietly, without a catch. He knew she often forgot to lock her front door. In the past three weeks, she had only locked it three times. Twice she left the keys hanging from the lock outside. A single female living alone. If only she understood the dangers in the world.

The smell of baking roast beef and gravy hit him as he walked down the hall toward the reception room. He moved very slowly, careful not to make any sound on the carpet that covered the length of the hardwood floor. One, two, three, four, he counted his steps, closer and closer he moved toward her. Movement from the living room made him pause, a sound of glass landing harshly and a plastic item dragged off a wooden tabletop. A click followed by loud blaring voices from the television calmed him down; he would not need to be so quiet now.

At the end of the hall, he placed the workbag at his feet and peered into the empty kitchen. No one. He knew exactly where she sat. After taking a deep breath, he stepped into the doorway. She didn’t see him at first, not until he moved closer and stood nearly in front of the television. She looked at the intruder in her house, somewhat confused by the wire in his hand.

Her face betrayed her shock—her eyes widened in horror. The remote control dropped to the floor. She opened her mouth but no words left her lips. He moved closer. Instinctively, she moved back on her sofa, crawling to the farthest edge before she grabbed her legs and pulled them into her chest. Huddled in the fetal position, her head shook like a robot unable to compute.

The tight leggings she wore accented her knees and for a minute, they distracted him. The knees, her knees, they made him pause. They were right there, right in front of him, her beautiful knees. The knees he dreamed about, fantasized about, worshipped, and they were his for the taking.

Finally she spoke, “What are you doing in my house? How did you get in?”

These questions disrupted his thoughts; he looked into her eyes and put his finger to his lips to silence her. Her eyes betrayed her fear and that drove him on. The power, oh the power. She was his now.

Confident, he stepped back and calmly asked, “Are you cooking something? It smells as if you’re cooking something. In the kitchen, I think. It smells delicious.”

She looked down at his hands and the wire, and finally, she said, “Is there something wrong? What are you doing? Why are you here, in my house? I want you to leave . . . immediately.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned and walked into the kitchen. Opening the oven, he knelt down and took a deep breath in. “Delicious. You are a wonderful cook.”

She stood nervously in the doorway, arms crossed in front of her.

“Why are you here? How did you get in? I am going to ring the police . . . leave my house immediately.”

“No, my sweet, you see, you can’t.” He held up the wire and slowly stood back from the oven. He watched her, her beautiful back and hands now hugging the door frame. He caught the cautious glance she made toward her front door.

You feel you are so close and yet how far you really are
, he thought.
You want to run, you want to scream, but you’re too scared.
As he moved toward her, she readied herself to run, bracing her feet firmly on the floor. At the end of the worktop he reached down, picked up the cookbook off the floor, and read the title.

“Oh, beautiful Edie, why do you make this hard on yourself? You won’t reach the end,” he said, taunting her as he stepped closer and closer to her. “Your beautiful legs, knees, I am afraid they won’t be able to carry you fast enough before I catch you. Perhaps you want the chase, is that what you want? Why don’t you run?”

Grabbing her chin with his gloved hand, he looked into her eyes. They spoke the one word he thrived on, terror. “Run,” he whispered into her ear and run she did. But, as he suspected, he caught her as she unlocked the bolt on the front door

“Tsk, tsk, you should be more careful, because you never know who could be outside lurking, do you?” He leaned past her and locked the front door again. “We don’t want someone coming in now, do we?”

Her legs became weak and she fell to the ground. Grabbing her hair, he pulled her up. A short high-pitched scream came out of her mouth.

Cupping her mouth with his hand, he whispered into her ear, “What are you doing? Why do you fight it? It will all be over soon.”

He ignored the stifled whimpers that came from under his hand as he dragged her down the hall. She clawed at the walls and kicked the floor trying to stand. When that failed, she attempted to reach behind and scratch him but he yanked on her hair in response. In the kitchen, she wildly threw her body up on the worktop and kicked like mad. The rack of spices flew through the air—the cumin bottle smashed in the sink sending greenish powder up in the air and tiny balls of peppercorns flew like little missiles in all directions as the bottle shattered against the fridge.

He couldn’t hold on to her and she threw herself to the floor, yanking drawers out as she fell. Cutlery landed with a deafening crash on the tile floor. He covered his ears with his hands. She crawled toward the kitchen door but yelped when his strong hand grabbed her ankle and dragged her back.

As screams emerged from her lips, he placed his hand over her mouth, and said, “Stop.”

He was getting angry now. This was not what he’d imagined. Where was his power? Where was her fear? Tired, he looked around for his wire, where was his wire? He must have lost it somewhere in the struggle.

She moved again, her hands clawed the floor, reaching for items. With a loud slap, his gloved hand connected with her face.

“Stop,” he said once again. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she began to whimper. With his body on hers to hold her down, he placed one hand on her neck—her thin tender neck—and began to squeeze. “Will you be quiet?”

When she made no movement, he squeezed her neck harder and asked again, “Will you be quiet?”

When she finally nodded yes, he took his hand off her mouth. Again he looked around for his wire. Nothing. He could feel her squirm beneath him, adjusting her body under his weight.

The smell of burning pot roast began to fill the room. Could he shut off the oven from here? He leaned back trying to reach the knobs on the hob. Just out of his reach. Damn. He slid his body back but he still couldn’t reach without taking his hand off her neck. No, no, no, he thought, this is not what he had planned. Turning back to her face, he realized he must deal with her first. She looked at him and the fear returned.

She squirmed as his second hand reached for her neck. No, she shook her head. Please, she pleaded with her eyes. Her yell was a gurgled gasp. As he watched her struggle for air, he felt a deep sharp pain radiate from his leg up his entire body. For a moment, his hands loosened from her neck and he let go. Blood pooled onto the floor from a large fork in his thigh. He reached back and yanked it out, blood gushed against the kitchen cupboard door. With anger he turned back to her. Her eyes were still on him, but she had stopped struggling for air.

Beautiful Edie Grace was no more.