Femme Fatale (Black Rose Book 2) (11 page)

The Killer

One good thing about being a man concerned with reputation is I learned how to fake it a long time ago. In my world, everything is always okay. Everything around you can be falling apart, but it’s still fine. At the very least, you make sure the appearance that everything is going well is prominent.

I can’t remember the last time I’ve been this angry. If I knew the identity of
Black Rose
, I’d kill him myself. Since I can’t get my hands on him… well, let’s just say that I’m not about to let this little blog matter go. Pulling me from my thoughts, a woman who’s attended a seminar I’m holding approaches me and begins speaking.

“Oh, I’m so inspired after hearing that lecture on making a difference in the community. I can’t remember a time I’ve ever been so motivated to help.”

The woman standing in front of me just finished listening to one of my lectures. I was giving her my signature smile and had planned on just tuning her out, but then she suddenly says something that catches my interest.

“I’m a nurse at the hospital, and I know a lot of my colleagues would love to be involved in volunteer work. I can’t wait to tell the other nurses about this seminar.”

“How interesting, you say you work at the hospital? I’ve always been so intrigued with medicine.”

Now we’re getting somewhere. That Evelyn bitch who saw my face is a nurse at the hospital. She has ties to
Black Rose
whether she knows it or not. I wonder… when her husband died, did she hate
Black Rose
for killing him? Or instead, did she bond with the man who took his life? Is she visiting his site in search of some kind of sick solace? Perhaps she was simply trying to sate some form of morbid curiosity.

One thing is for certain now; my curiosity is piqued.
Black Rose
was responsible for the death of Evelyn’s fiancé. The media spilled those beans, though it wasn’t difficult to ascertain who was responsible since he left a black rose on the body. I want to know if she hates him for killing her would be husband or if there is a relationship between the two I need to be aware of. Regardless of her personal feelings toward my new enemy, I have the perfect mind-fuck in store for that puffed-up piece of testosterone.

Melanie

I’m looking at my husband’s website, or rather
Black Rose’s
website, and I’m in shock. The man who left a comment under his last blog post was pissed, and I have to say it was with good reason.

“You purposely antagonized him?”

Even though I’m phrasing it in the form of a question, it’s pretty clear my husband implied Richard ordered his men to rape his victims because he was impotent. Attacking a man’s ability to get an erection is a surefire way to piss him off, especially if that man is a local celebrity.

“Yes, ma’am, I did. Getting rough when it’s consensual is one thing, but terrorizing a woman and gang raping her is absolutely detestable. I want this son of a bitch to pay!”

My phone rings, interrupting our conversation. When I look down and see it’s Evelyn, I hold up my finger to signify that I need to take the call. Before I can even say hello, her panicked voice comes over the line.

“I can’t put it into words, but I feel like I’m being followed. It’s like there’s someone lurking in the shadows, watching me and just waiting for a chance to make a move.”

“Do you think it’s Richard Roundtree?”

“I don’t know. I honestly don’t know, Melanie. I’m beginning to doubt that guy was even trying to choke my patient.”

“You need to stop doubting yourself. Have you forgotten that she identified him as being one of the men who assaulted her? This guy isn’t getting off that easy. You’ve got to stay focused. Somewhere out there is a woman who’s willing to step forward and testify against this guy.”

I feel like I spend a lot of time giving this girl pep talks, but I am walking a fine line right now. I need to buy some time so my husband and I can commit my first murder.

“Do you think this feeling you have that someone is following you could just be your imagination playing tricks on you? You’ve been under a lot of stress.”

“I guess it could be.”

“Look, as cliché as it sounds, you know the things you should do: be careful, look over your shoulder, don’t park next to vans, stay in well lit areas. You know all the crime prevention tricks. Has he shown back up in the hospital?”

“No, I haven’t seen or heard from the guy.”

“Then it very well could be that you’re just being paranoid. If you get freaked out, I’m here and I’m just a phone call away.”

Even though I do think Evelyn’s probably being overly suspicious, I do care about her and don’t want to see her go through any more suffering. I certainly don’t want the poor girl in any danger! Oddly enough, we’ve bonded over the years. I was the one who helped her get through the scandal of when her husband was outed as a serial killer.

“Okay, you’re probably right.”

I hang up the phone and eye my husband.

“Is this guy dangerous?”

“Very… he’s extremely dangerous.”

“Then we need to hurry up and kill him.”

“Killing isn’t something you
hurry up
and do. I’ll put someone on her to make sure she’s safe.”

His eyes cut through me as he makes his next statement.

“Don’t allow a time constraint force you into doing something that gets us caught or, worse yet, killed. I think you’re forgetting we aren’t dealing with one killer; we’re dealing with four. These are men who will do anything to keep from getting caught. You need to be patient. It’s their addiction to killing that will hasten their demise. You don’t do anything without clearing it with me. You’re operating on emotion, and I’m not. In this line of work, your emotions will get you killed. I want these sons of a bitches dead as badly as you do, but I don’t want their ghosts coming back to haunt me.”

The Killer

No matter how much I turn up the music, that fucking bitch kicking around in my trunk is making too much noise. I hadn’t planned on abducting anyone, so I don’t have any of the normal things I would carry. Every time I’ve taken a woman in the past, I’ve always knocked them out with drugs. Hell, half the time, the dimwits I have working for me just drugged a woman at the bar where they worked and brought her back to me unconscious.

In this whole sick, fucked-up game I play with my victim’s lives, it really isn’t about the women; it’s about control. The way I wrote the rules, I not only control the women hostages, but I also control the men who do my bidding. I dictate their every fucking move, and they obey me. I wonder about the guys who work for me. What in the world would make them submit to my depraved games?

Having power over three men and a woman at the same time is like a drug I have come to crave. Sitting in a chair in the corner of the room and lording over them while I mandate orders is a euphoric power high. It excites me to see the fear in a victim’s eyes. They’re all different. Some of them started out so angry—so determined to survive—but by my hand and in my time, they eventually break. They all do. No matter how strong they are when it all starts, by the time I’m done with them, they’re completely demoralized. The only problem with that is that it isn’t any fun after they get to that point. What fun is there to be had when there is no more fight? I like it when they fight back. The object of the game is to gain control over an unwilling victim. I guess by the time I’m finished playing with them, as mentally and emotionally fragmented as they are, I am really doing them a favor by putting them out of their misery. I’m saving them thousands of dollars and years of counseling. They should be grateful. It’s like I’m a God, and they’re my minions. I hold the power of life and death in my hands. In that moment, I am omnipotent.

I stop at a light, willing it to change as a man with flowers approaches my car. Having the music blaring isn’t going to prevent someone from hearing that bitch in the back, kicking in the trunk of my car. He’s right beside me by the time the light turns green, and all I can do is hope like hell that he hasn’t heard her. I can’t even fathom the possibility of going down over something as simple as a street vendor overhearing that woman’s screams. Logically, I know he probably didn’t hear anything, and even if he did, he more than likely didn’t have time to get my plate number. Even so, no matter how hard I try to convince myself, the nagging thought still bugs me.
It’s the small foxes that spoil the vine.

The close call changes my plan. I can’t risk driving the route I’d have to take to get the woman to my warehouse. There are just too many stoplights and, therefore, too many opportunities for that bitch to make her presence known. I decide to pull off on a side street and take the back roads home. I’ll be able to pull into my garage and get her out with no one the wiser.