Femme Fatale (Black Rose Book 2) (3 page)

Melanie

Though my husband hasn’t agreed to what I asked him to do, he hasn’t necessarily refused either. Even after years of being married to him, his temperament is one that keeps me guessing. I’m feeling pretty confident at this point. My reasoning is that if he were truly unwilling to avenge this woman, he would have adamantly refused when I presented the idea yesterday. The first thing I did this morning was search for and grab the magazine we’d discussed. I know my husband well enough to know that he’ll ask me about it later. He might even go so far as to base his decision to help me on whether or not I listened to his warning. Regardless, it is now in my bag, safely tucked away, and I will burn it in the fireplace later. Now, it’s time to gather more evidence. I feel an odd excitement I’ve never experienced before, like I’m on some secret mission to avenge the woman who was assaulted. In a sense, I guess I am.

The patient is sleeping when I quietly slip into the room to gather Intel on her. I am well aware my husband has a code when it comes to killing. The accused has to be guilty, or he won’t go through with the kill. He doesn’t thrill kill; he does, however, avenge those worthy of being defended.

I am taking it upon myself to gather details on the victim before my husband asks me for the information. Staying one step ahead on things will help my chances of him going through with it. Without
Black Rose
, successfully ridding the world of this man will be impossible, and he’ll continue preying on women while he lies to the public about who and what he really is. The villain has only added insult to injury by being so hypocritical.

Making my way into the patient’s bathroom, I eye her make-up bag. Rummaging through the contents unearths a pill bottle, revealing she was already on anti-depressants before her traumatic assault. That isn’t good. It’s hard enough for any woman to deal with the shame and guilt of rape, but this means her agony had to have been intensified. The guilt women face at the hands of their attackers is one of the main reasons I want to kill the man. Over and over, I’ve heard women blame themselves for the atrocity of being raped, and over and over, I’ve counseled them, explaining they are not at fault for a monster’s behavior. No wonder she doesn’t want to go through the anguish of facing her attackers in court. From previous experience with patients who have been through similar circumstances, I know the victim is often raked over the coals in an effort to discredit their testimony. I’ve even heard women go so far as to say it’s like being raped all over again.

The rest of the contents in her bag are the standard items any woman would use in their beauty regime. I pull her purse over to go through it as well, and a tinge of guilt courses through me. I’m not in the habit of imposing on other people’s privacy. Convincing myself it’s for the greater good, I continue rifling through its contents. I fumble with her wallet in an effort to get one of her business cards. The latex gloves I’m wearing impede the dexterity I would normally have. There’s no doubt I’m probably being overly cautious, but this is a life or death issue, and I’ve resigned myself to believing it’s better to err on the side of caution. Perhaps I share more of my husband’s traits than I previously believed. Could he be right? Are there dark shadows in me just waiting, yearning to be released? It would be so much better to find out I have a dark side now than to be riddled with guilt after I commit the mortal sin of murder. I stuff the business card in my pocket and make a mental note to do an Internet search on her when I get home. I also have access to her medical records, which will provide me with a lot of insight into her life. If she has been under the care of a psychiatrist and been caught lying, it will reveal her true character to me. As badly as I want to kill her attacker, I don’t want to kill an innocent man more. Much like my husband, I need to know this man is truly guilty before I can justify being the cause of his death.

My husband has access to police records and what he doesn’t have access to, he can hack. If there is anything about this woman online, he’ll be able to find it.

I quietly make my way out to her room, treading lightly and moving quickly before anyone comes in to check on her. I grab the jeans she has laying over the standard hospital room chair and pull her cell phone from the pocket. I quickly scroll through her contacts and calendar, promptly writing down her last appointments and the address that, thankfully, hasn’t been deleted yet. I know she’s a realtor from talking to Evelyn, and I’m thinking perhaps that’s the way her kidnapper lured her into his trap. Most realtors would feel comfortable meeting a man as high profile as Richard Roundtree on their own.

Anyone living in Louisville, Kentucky knows that name. He’s the go-to guru for any philanthropy work that goes on in the area. From helping to save the library, to providing the animals at the local zoo a cage free environment, Richard has his hands in it. If it has anything to do with volunteer work, then you can bet his name is attached in some form or fashion. The guy is a staple in the society section of the local newspaper, dubbed the CJ—short for The Courier Journal.

This poor girl was probably suckered into believing she hit pay dirt when he called for her to show him a house in one of the most affluent neighborhoods in the area. According to her note, she had made an appointment to show him homes in communities listed among the top ten most expensive and elite places to live in Louisville. Neighborhoods like Bonny Castle and Mocking Bird Valley are known for being home to some of the wealthiest millionaires in the area—the crème de la crème of society. The girl was probably blinded by dollar signs before she even met Richard Roundtree in person.

If what we suspect is true really happened, then what started out as a dream come true for this girl, quickly turned into a nightmare—a nightmare there’s no escape from. The only way this girl will ever be free of Richard Roundtree is if my husband and I step in and put a permanent end to his antics by putting him six feet under in a pine box…

Charles

My wife is asking me to do something that’s sure to unleash a part of me I have managed to keep subdued for years. One thing I know she doesn’t understand is that I enjoy the take down as well as the kill of an opponent. The more of a challenge it is, the more satisfying I find it to be. I am a stalker by nature. Even in the pursuit of my wife, that particular personality trait had been prevalent. After years of being married to her, I still find it very satisfying to monitor her every move, stalking her from the shadows. I’m in love with my wife, but love and obsession are very closely related to each other in my world.

With Tom away at college, I no longer have to worry about him witnessing the killer within me. Most children don’t even have one parent who is a killer, and now my son will have two. Will Melanie find satisfaction in the hunt and ultimate kill like me, or will she find the act and the sight of my bloodstained hands appalling? I know I run the risk of horrifying her. For her sake, I hope she can deal with the mental and emotional aspects of what she will witness because, really, there is no other choice. I will never allow her to leave me.

There’s also the possibly she’ll enjoy seeing someone die for their sins. If she does happen to develop a taste for blood, we will certainly make a deadly team against the criminal element in our area. The possibility makes me smile in hopeful anticipation.

Years ago, when I was at the height of my killing career, the media had actually dubbed me the
Black Rose Killer
because of a black rose left on the body of a pimp I killed. The worthless son of a bitch had been responsible for ruining a man’s life to the point where he felt suicide was his only option. With plans to rob him for their drug money, the pimp and his hooker girlfriend had set the poor man up, just as they had countless victims before him. The victim spent six weeks in the hospital recuperating from injuries the pimp had inflicted upon him. When the media caught wind of the story, a huge scandal had ensued, and with his face splattered all over the local stations and newspapers, his wife immediately left him, taking their two children with her. He had also lost his job, along with the respect of his colleagues and any hope of gaining employment elsewhere. At that point, he decided there was no reason to live, and he jumped to his death from a high-rise building.  In turn, I killed the pimp and his junkie hooker girlfriend. Though it made me feel better, there was no undoing the damage that had been done to the man and his family.

After I killed him and left my signature black rose, the crime rate had actually gone down. Criminals were afraid of the man who left his mark in the form of something as sinister as a single black rose. When the killings suddenly stopped, many of the media outlets had surmised that I must have either died or been arrested; after all, serial killers don’t just quit killing. Statistically, nothing stops them except death or incarceration. However, I beat those odds, and I controlled my darker urges for the sake of my family. Now, I will unleash that part of me that hungers for blood at the request of a family member. Oh, the irony life sometimes throws our way! It’s almost like fate is playing a sadistic joke on us just because she’s in a
mood
that day, fickle bitch that she is.

A part of me fears killing with my wife, but I have to admit there is also a darker part of me that is sexually excited by the prospect. The thought of her watching me—the gleam of a knife in my gloved hand—while I cut into the chest cavity of a subdued victim is highly arousing. The warehouse I have for the sole purpose of executing vengeance is still set up like I never stopped killing. Everything is perfectly set up for the kill and the cleanup, ready for the act to be committed. The concrete floor with the drain that has washed away all evidence of the blood I’ve spilled over the years cries out for a new victim. Soon, I will answer that call.