Disclaimer/notes: Um, in this chapter
Mildred belongs to me. And maybe so does the killer, we just
don't know yet now do we? ::grins:: Well, this has taken a
far step away from the story I had begun in November of last
year. It's taken on a totally new direction, and now, with
it's rewrite, everything I had planed before, went down the
winding watery hole called the toilet. Everything that I had
thought of before, is gone. For the most part, it's still
the same really, the killer is the same as I've always thought
him to be, although now, I have a bit of a better insight
to the killers mind thanks to "Murder One: A Writers
Guide to Homicide" that I've recently bought and read.
Very intriguing book, and very helpful too. Many of the characters
switched roles, Magneto, for an example, isn't president anymore
(that was a VERY big over step on my part. Boy, was that ever
a dumb move!), and the rest, well, you'll see.
My own thoughts had to take a... backseat in writing this
so to speak. To keep to the true form of the characters in
this story, I've had to write a few things that I don't believe
in, and a few things that go against my religion. Unfortunately
for me, it was something I chose to do, and I will have to
live with the consequences of my actions. But, to tell you
the truth, I just can't see people going around saying "Oh
darn, he killed someone else. Can you pass the coffee pot,
please?" What kind of person would actually talk like
So, I've trying to keep this as true to a real life scenario
as I could, and in doing so, I think I've written something
that's actually pretty good, although, I sure wouldn't want
my Bishop reading it ::smiles::. For the few friends of mine
who are also Mormon, I'm going to tone this down a little
before I send it out to them, meaning, all the cussing, and
a few of the more graphic seances and details will be taken
out. If anyone would like me to send them that version, I'll
be more then happy to, just e-mail me and let me know.
Otherwise, most parts will be at a top rating of PG13, and,
on the very few chapters I have in mind that would rate an
R, I'll be sending out a toned down version to the list as
Well, I guess the last thing to say is, please, please, PLEASE
send me feedback. I REALLY need something to keep me going
here, I just got a few things I really liked ripped apart
by my parents (they sure picked a hell of a time to start
reading my work), and well, lack of feedback hasn't been very
good for me lately. Neither has flames, so, if you don't have
anything good to say, shove it in your ear. ::grins::
If I get some internet time tomorrow, which isn't looking
too likely, I'll send on part two. And, as soon as part three
gets back from my editor, that'll be out as well.
Okay, enough of that, there's almost more notes then story,
so, here ya go:
She had beautiful lips.
The kind of lips that you could stare at for hours, tracing
with your eyes, wishing it was your tongue. The kind of lips
you could suck on from now until eternity.
They were beautiful, exquisitely perfect in every way. Round,
but not too round; red, so that they never needed lipstick;
no blackheads around the corners, they were perfectly smooth.
They were very kissable lips.
It was a shame that this wonderful pair of lips now belonged
to a dead woman; but, then again, now, she was in a place
where her wonderful lips could be admired by God and his angels.
But it was a shame, it really was, and mostly because
he'd never see those wonderful lips coming down upon his own,
never see them kissing lines down his chest-
He shook his head, surprised at the turn of his thoughts.
She was not her. These were the wrong lips.
He put his silencer-equipped pistol back into the pocket of
his leather coat and pulled out a pair of matching black leather
gloves. He slipped them onto his hands, one at a time, making
sure that his fingers were nice and secure, and that none
his flesh was left uncovered.
He detested the way dead people, even dead people with such
wonderful lips, felt on his skin, growing slowly cold and
clammy. It was better to think of them when they were alive.
To think of those lips as they had opened and closed in the
rhythm of speech. The way they had parted when she'd taken
a sip from her drink. The way her tongue slowly, tantalizingly,
licked them while she had talked to him.
He picked up the dead woman. Her eyes were still open, cloudy
blue in death, and they seemed to be looking beyond him, right
to the new world she would be in. There was no surprise, no
terror in those eyes; he had pulled the gun, and trigger,
before she had ever known what hit her. She had let him into
her house, for, who would ever think that this nice man would
Not that he was, hurting anyone that is. He had sent her
to a better place, a place where there were no humans, and
no mutants, a place where the world was hers and everyone
She was in a much better place now. Much better.
And there was one less of her kind to compete with his love.
He was doing the world a favor, really he was. He honestly
believed that, deep within his soul, that what he was doing
wasn't wrong. That all the others, the prostitutes, the cop,
that women he'd met in the bar, they all deserved to die.
They were all trying to take her place, but they couldn't.
They couldn't even compare to her.
And that was why they had to go.
He gathered her in his arms -- she was very light despite
the stiffness already coming to her joints -- and carried
her through the dining room where they had sat, past the kitchen
and out the back door to the pool. He looked around first,
making sure no nosy neighbor was looking over the fence at
him. The sun had just set -- the moon didn't even have the
decency to pay respect for the dead by showing its face --
so there was no light by which neighbors could see his face.
He carried her over to a lawn chair, and laid her down on
it, crossing her arms under the back of her head. Slowly,
tenderly, he closed her eyelids, holding them down so they
would stay shut, for a while at least.
He stood back, looking at her.
She looked...peaceful. Wonderfully, peaceful, except for
the bullet hole in her forehead, but he could fix that.
He walked back inside, into the kitchen area.
It was small, and untidy compared to the rest of the house.
There were dirty dishes in the sink, old food on the stove;
it sickened him to see such a mess.
He turned on the water in the sick, stopped it up, and pulled
off his gloves, laying them neatly on the side of the sink.
When it was filled with water, he picked up one plate and
began to wash it; then, rinse it, and put it in the dish drained.
He repeated the process until there were no more dishes,
then scraped the food out of the pots and pans on the stove
and washed them as well. He hummed happily to himself as he
did this, then started mouthing the words to a child's song
until they came out in a slight, tunelessly cheerful whisper.
"The itsy bitsy spider, went up the water spout. Down
came the rain and washed the spider out. Out came the sun
and dried up all the rain, and the itsy bitsy spider climbed
up the spout again." He paused, looked out the window
over the sink and cocked his head to one side, as if seeing
something. "Damn spider," he said, still smiling,
and continued with the dishes.
As a last minute thought, he opened the refrigerator, and
began cleaning that out as well, washing pots and pans, plates
and bowls, that had food in them from Heaven only knows when.
After all this was done, he cleaned out the freezer too,
taking out everything that was freezer burnt and tossed it
into the trash. He then proceeded to dawn his gloves again,
and dry the dishes, making sure to smear his finger prints,
if not wiping them off completely. After a moment of searching,
he found a bottle of Windex under the kitchen sink, and sprayed
everything down, wiping it clean.
Once he was satisfied that the kitchen was spotless and pine
fresh, he opened the cabinets and found two glasses and two
plates. He then made two ham and cheese sandwiches with Miracle
Whip, not mayonnaise, trimmed off the crust, and cut
the sandwiches into four triangles.
He also poured two tall glasses of milk, and, putting the
food on a tray he found in one cabinet, carried it outside
to the pool. He sat it down on a table, and pulled the table
over to the dead woman. Then he remembered the whole reason
he had gone into the kitchen in the fist place.
"Don't worry," he said, smiling down at the woman.
"I'll be right back, and we'll fix that messy little
hole in your head," he said nodding to himself and half
ran back into the house. When he found the bathroom, he sighed
heavily because it was almost as bad a disgrace as the kitchen
had been. Trying to ignore the mess, he rummaged around in
the medicine cabinet, and found a white metal box with a large
red cross on the led. A first aid kit.
He brought it back outside, and opened it. After cleaning
and bandaging up the wound, it just looked as if the woman
had just hit her head, and was now sleeping quietly. He sat
down in another chair across from her, and ate his sandwich
and milk all the while looking at the woman's perfect lips,
and smiling to himself.
Her name was Mildred. Mildred Lucius. She was 29, a children's
artist, painting pictures of things people liked to buy for
their kids' rooms. She was a widow at such a young age, a
car accident had taken her husband, Owen, three years ago,
and she was alone.
She had told all of this to him. they'd met at a party mutual
friends had been throwing, and all the signs that she liked
him had been there. It was because of this, because of the
flirting, the batting of her eyes lashes, the way she had
rubbed against him in "accident" so many times at
the party that had made him pick her. It was the way she aroused
him; the way -- when he had finally asked her to dace -- that
she had pushed up against him; the way she had been unashamed
at her wantonness; and the way she rubbed her thigh against
his crotch, then smiled shyly at him. It was that way that
she had smiled at him, the curve of those perfect lips, the
way she licked them absently, the way the turned up at the
corners and always seemed to be smiling.
She had the best lips God had ever created.
Definitely suckable lips.
He could feel himself being aroused as he sat there, looking
at her lips, and thinking of their first meeting. He pushed
the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth, took another
sip of the milk, and got up. He left the other sandwish in
it's place beside Mildred, but picked up his own dishes and
walked back into the kitten, where he washed and put away
his plate, then filled his glass again.
He sat down in her living room, looking around. It was a
nice house, but Mildred, he thought taking another sip of
milk, poor dear Mildred was a slob.
He got back up, decided to do the woman's family a favor
by cleaning up. Starting with the bathroom, and ending with
vacuuming her carpet, and, after finding a mop in the garage,
moping the kitten and bathroom floors.
Then he took out the trash.
After all his cleaning was done, he sat back down on her
couch, and pulled up the telephone beside him. He dialed the
number he knew by heart, and heard it ring twice before it
was picked up.
"Hello? Homicide. Detective LeBeau speakin'," the
strongly accented Cajun voice said over the phone; he sounded
The killer smiled, but didn't answer. His good friend Remy
LeBeau. One of the few friends he allowed himself to get near
enough to him. A very good friend indeed, a legion among the
police in his department. A man filled with wonders indeed.
He hated Remy LeBeau with a passion that never showed when
the two were face to face with each other. Remy LeBeau was
one of very few people who ever made him truly angry. And,
of course, it was Remy LeBeau's fault all of this was happening.
The killer had decided long ago that he would do everything
in his power to make Remy LeBeau pay for the things he'd done
"Hello? Wh-Fils d'une chienne!!"
His smile got larger. Remy wasn't a very smart man, that
was for certain, for, if he was, he would have seen through
the killers mask long ago. But, he wasn't all that
stupid. he did indeed have a few find points where the gray
matter inside the head was conserned. "115 Marble
Lane, Remy. 115 Marble Lane, and do hurry, she's here all
He put the phone down on the cradle softly and started to
hum again. Then he got up, it would be only a matter of minutes
before Detective Remy LeBeau had the SWAT team down here with
stun grenades and tear gas.
So, with a damp cloth, he wiped down anything he might have
touched before he donned his gloves, and the door bell he
had rung. He walked out back, once more wanting to see Mildred's
wonderful lips. Slowly, with care, he bent down and kissed
They were cold.
Then he calmly walked back through the house, found a piece
of paper and a pen, and wrote something quickly. Then he was
out the front door and in his car, driving out of sight two
minuets before the police arrived.
As he drove down the road, an afterthought ran through his
head and he smiled, pulling out his cell phone.
Continued in Chapter
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