A very special thanks to Bob Strauss who
proofread the original manuscript nearly ten years ago. Thanks to Robert
Masterson for his hard work on proofreading this final version and for all his
comments and insights.

Thanks also to my lovely wife, Christie for
her unwavering love and support. And my unending thanks and gratitude to all my
faithful readership. I couldn't (and probably wouldn't) do any of this without
you.

Prologue

Something wasn’t
right. Malcolm rang the doorbell, again. No answer. He could see furtive
movements in the upstairs window, shadowy silhouettes darting around behind the
curtains in Natasha’s room. She was home. She was not alone. And she was not
answering the door. A ricochet began in Malcolm’s brain, a jumble of jealous
angry thoughts like a ballistic projectile bouncing around his skull, gaining
momentum, tearing his mind apart.

She’s cheating on me. She’s cheating
on me! That lying, whoring bitch is cheating on ME!

The thoughts
bounced around his mind at increasing velocity. Malcolm hated it when this
happened, this loss of control. Even if he had to kill someone tonight, he
wanted his head clear when he did it. If he lost his head he’d be sloppy and
get caught. He’d never killed anyone before, and if tonight was the night when
he crossed that line, he needed to be calm and rational. But he didn’t know how
to do that. He didn’t know how he could possibly stay calm with his girlfriend
up there dirtying the sheets with some other stud.

“I knew this bitch
would betray me,” he whispered, shaking his head and breathing heavily, his
pulse speeding up, muscles tensing.

All his friends had
told him not to date outside his race.

Stay with your own, Malcolm. You
ain’t got no business messin’ around with those white bitches. They ain’t
nothin’ but a bunch of triflin’ whores and you ain’t shit to them but a cheap
thrill.

He’d ignored them
all because Natasha was different. She loved him. She had told him so.

That lying bitch! That lying bitch!
THAT LYING, FUCKING BITCH!

Malcolm began
grinding his teeth as he struggled to control his rage. He knew that if he
allowed these thoughts out of his head, gave voice to them, let them take him over,
he would smash through the door and kill everyone inside. He knew enough about
himself to know that mercy was not part of his makeup. Holding the thoughts
inside made his entire body shake. The veins in his neck and forehead bulged.
His teeth gnashed. His eyes dodged back and forth in their sockets as his mind
worked overtime, trying to steady itself. His hands clenched into fists so
tight the skin on his knuckles threatened to rip. A scream, a roar, was trapped
in his gut and it churned there, indigestible.

A giggle came from
somewhere in the house and then . . . Malcolm charged. The compressed wood
particleboard that comprised the front door became wood particles again as
Malcolm’s entire body slammed into it—through it. The peephole flew across the
room and shattered the mirror over the mantelpiece. Malcolm stood in the living
room, wood chips scattered at his feet.

The house was dark
and silent except for a lone light coming from Natasha’s bedroom and the heavy,
panting breath of a very large and angry teenager. Malcolm was halfway up the
stairs when he heard her window open and footsteps on the roof. Whoever was in
Natasha’s room was trying to escape.

That fuckin’ coward!

Malcolm ran back down the stairs and out into the yard.
When he looked up at the figures silhouetted by the moon and crawling out of
Natasha’s window, his hand tightened around his ten-dollar swap-meet
switchblade with the leopard on the handle. He could already imagine their
blood staining the blade. He reached up and grabbed the man from where he
dangled off the gutter, and pulled him down to slam hard on the lawn. Then
Malcom stopped. He looked up at Natasha, frozen on the roof, and then down at
his best friend, Reed, struggling to sit up in the wet grass like a dying
cockroach trying to right itself on a waxed floor.

“What the fuck is going on!”

Malcolm was
confused but still angry, still murderously angry. He could hear the voices of
his friends in his head, the ones who had tried to warn him.

You can’t trust none of them muthafuckas. That white
boy you kick it with spends more time with your girl than you do. Fuck do you
think they doin’ when you ain’t around?

But Malcolm had ignored all the
warnings.

“Nothing man. We were just
hanging out. Just talking.” Reed stayed on his back, obviously figuring it was
safer down there than up where his six-foot-five-inch homicidal best friend
raged.

“In her fucking bedroom!”

The ricochet had
begun again, rebounding off his skull with increasing force. Malcolm could feel
his mind rattling itself apart. His eyes searched Reed’s, almost hoping the kid
could provide some rational answer, something that would calm the maelstrom in
Malcolm’s head.

“Malcolm, we weren’t doing
anything! Don’t hurt him!” Natasha screamed as she scrambled down from the
roof.

“You don’t answer the door? You
sneak out the fuckin’ window?”

The flaming projectile whizzed
through his mind and his entire body shook.

My best friend and my girlfriend.

It wouldn’t stop.
It flew faster and faster through his brain.

My best friend and my girlfriend. My best
friend and my girl friend. My best friend and MY FUCKING GIRLFRIEND! That lying
bitch is cheating on me! That sonuvabitch fucked my girl!

Malcolm was losing
it again.

“Man, I swear
nothing happened.”

Malcolm held the knife in a
white-knuckled grip, trying to decide who to use it on, Reed, Natasha, or
himself and in what order.

“Reed, you’d better get the
fuck out of here. Because I think I’m going to kill you.”

His voice was calm
and even. He almost didn’t sound angry at all except for his words and the fact
that he was holding six inches of deadly sharp steel.

“Look man, it ain’t what you
think . . .”

“GO!” He lashed out with the
knife, slashing at Reed’s throat. Reed jerked away as the blade whispered
through the air, nicked his throat and drew blood. His eyes widened as a
trickle of red dripped down and stained the collar of his t-shirt. Malcolm
sneered as Reed quickly wiped away the blood, stared at the smear of red on his
palm, then took off running across the lawn.

“Fuckin’ coward!”

Malcolm stood in front of the
house, a huge shadow raging beneath the full moon. He turned toward Natasha.
She looked terrified.

“Baby, come inside. It’s okay.
I swear we were just talking.” She was trying hard to sound normal, but she was
afraid, and Malcolm knew it and that just made him angrier. She had tried to
sneak off with Reed. She had run in fear from him. He wanted to show her
exactly what there was to be afraid of.

Malcolm allowed himself to be
led back into the house. Natasha sat down on the old mohair couch as he walked
past her into the kitchen. He lifted up the stovetop on the oven and blew out
the pilot lights then he turned up the gas.

“Baby? W-what are you doing?
Malcolm?”

“Remember when you said you
wanted to die with me? Remember when you said you would die for me? I believed
you then. I really believed you meant it. But now I’m not so sure.”

“Baby, you know I’d die for
you.”

“Really?” He eyed Natasha
suspiciously, “Then let’s do it.”

His voice held no warmth or
emotion. Natasha searched his eyes and could find none of the love that usually
burned there for her. Shadows slithered across his dark retinas as if someone
had flipped a switch and turned off all the light inside of him.

Malcolm sat down at the kitchen
table. The rotten egg stink of natural gas began to fill the room. Natasha’s
gaze darted around the kitchen in a panic. She looked back at Malcolm and tears
began to well up and cascade down her cheeks.

“Oh, Malcolm, I’m not ready to
die!”

“Yeah? Well I am, and you said
you would die with me. Have you changed your mind? Maybe Reed has changed your
mind?”

“Malcolm!”

“Is it because he’s the same
color as you? Got tired of fucking a nigger? Started getting homesick for your
own kind? Tell me, did you fuck him?”

“Malcolm!”

“Did you? Did you?”

“Pleaaase!”

“Just answer the fucking
question! Did-you-fuck-him?”

“Malcolm the gas! We’re going
to suffocate!”

“Did you?”

“Yes, damn it! Yes,
we did! I did! But so did your last girlfriend, Renee’. Last year when she was
all buddy-buddy with Reed while you were at work. She was fucking him! You
thought she was so damned perfect. I could never measure up to Renee’, right?
Well she fucked him, too, and it’s your fault! You’re mean, Malcolm. You’re
cold. You never let anyone close to you. You smothered Renee’ by being so
jealous and controlling and then you tried to break me down. You made me feel
like shit for not being Renee’. I’m not Renee’, Malcolm. I’m me. I just wanted
you to love
me
. ”

Malcolm’s face twisted into a
scowl.

“What the fuck did you say?”

“Renee . . . she cheated on you
too, Malcolm.”

All the rage
drained out of him. His entire body deflated as if his anger had been the only
thing filling his skin. He wilted down into the recliner across from Natasha.

Renee’ had been the
first woman he’d ever loved. The only reason he hadn’t checked out on life. She
had shown him that life could be beautiful and not just the foul and murky sty
filled with sewer rats, cockroaches, and dilapidated row homes that he
experienced every day. That life could be more than broken beer bottles, crack
vials, and hypodermic needles. More than the hopeless drug addicts, the single
welfare mothers, the teenaged dealers, the fights, and shootouts that filled
his nights and days. She had shown him that life could be more than poverty,
madness, violence, and hunger, that there could be hope and joy. She had shown
him that not everyone and everything in life was out to hurt him.

She lied!

Malcolm felt the
most profound misery he’d ever known. He’d just lost everything. This world was
no longer a place he wanted to live in. Reed, his best friend, had fucking
betrayed him! The only man he’d let get close to him since his father. The only
man he’d ever trusted. The only person he’d ever really thought came close to
being his equal, had betrayed him with the only two women he’d ever really
loved! They were all lost to him now.

Malcolm’s mind
filled with fantasies of death, torture, and dismemberment. He wanted them all
to suffer. He wanted them to feel the pain he felt. But what he felt was too
vast. It seemed impossible. No matter what he did,
they’d never hurt as much as he did now. He just wanted to be rid of it all.

He reached across
the cracked and yellowing Formica kitchen table and pulled out a book of matches.
He pulled one matchstick from the pack . . .

“Malcolm! Noooooo!”

. . . and lit it.

BOOK: Pure Hate

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