James Conway - In Cold Blonde

She’d driven by Blake’s house twice, looking for any sign of police. She saw none. Relieved she was still a couple of steps ahead of the cops, she pulled into Blake’s driveway.

She’d chosen a red skirt that was just a little too short and a white tank top that was a little too tight. She’d had sex with Adam and given head to Colin but she wanted nothing to do with this sleazebag. She didn’t mind tempting him, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to sleep with him.

She’d come prepared. The scalpel was washed. Her .25 Colt was cleaned and loaded. And she had a grocery bag filled with the makings for dinner. Pasta, sauce, bread, premixed salad from Whole Foods and a low calorie Italian dressing.

She almost made a mistake this morning. She was just going to kill him and be done with it. But it occurred to her that Blake was the one shooting the video on that terrible night. She’d really like to finally see that video. Find out once and for all what really happened to her. So she was going to flirt, and cook and pry and hopefully find out where he kept his old videos. And then finally, with her gun pressed to his forehead, as he was begging for his life, she might even get an apology.

She walked to his door filled with hope. Hope that she’d finally learn what those boys did to her and hope that her bloody revenge would finally come to an end. Fixing a smile firmly in place, Alice rang the bell.

Blake opened the door. “Right on time,” Blake said, motioning her inside.

“My mother taught me to never keep a man waiting,” she said walking in.

Blake eyed the grocery bag. “What’s for dinner?”

“My specialty,” Alice said heading for the kitchen. “Pasta.” She dropped her purse on a chair in the living room and giggled. “To be honest, it’s about the only thing I know how to cook. But it’ll be good, I promise.”

“I love pasta.” Blake said as he watched her unpack the food. He studied her face, tried to see Alice in there. Couldn’t. This woman has the most dazzling green eyes, did Alice have green eyes? He didn’t think so. Contacts?

“So,” he said, joining her in the kitchen. “Before you start cooking,” he said looking deeply into her eyes, “I insist we have a drink on the deck. The sun sets in a few minutes and, with that mountain of cumulous clouds on the horizon, it should be spectacular.”

God, he’s intense, Alice thought as Blake stared into her eyes. And a little bit creepy. But she had a job to do so she raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow, tilted her head and said, “Sounds wonderful.”

Yep, contacts, Blake thought as he finally discerned a bit of the edge. “You go out on the deck and I’ll make us a drink. What’ll you have?”

“Wine, white if you have it.”

“I’ve got a Chardonnay with your name on it.”

“Thank you,” Alice said, sliding open the French doors and stepping outside. It was like stepping into a postcard. The sea was calm and the sun hung like a huge crimson sphere just above the surface. Alice breathed in the air, allowed herself to enjoy the smell of the sea, the sound of the surf, the visual splendor of nature’s charismatic swan song.

There was this one doctor at the Institute who was experimenting with aural psychology and would make her lie on a waterbed listening to sounds of the surf, waves breaking and seagulls singing and watch her brainwaves. He showed her the results and they were amazing. Her alpha wave went from a network of huge hills and valleys to an almost smooth line. She was revved up now and could do with a little modulating, so Alice breathed deeply, closed her eyes and let her ears take over.

Blake watched the blonde from kitchen. As soon as her back was to him, he inched toward her purse. He opened it and looked inside. He moved a wallet aside and saw a handgun. It was small, easy to conceal. Good.

With a quick glance to make sure she still wasn’t looking, he snatched the gun, slipped it into his pocket. Then he put the wallet back in place, closed the purse and walked to the Sub Zero. The blonde’s eyes were closed. She looked peaceful, he thought.

Enjoy it while you can, baby.

He took out a bottle of Cakebread chardonnay and set it on the counter. Then he took the gun and surreptitiously slipped it into the dishtowel drawer, shoving it well back and out of sight. He closed the drawer.

His eyes went back to the blonde on the deck, still in her trance. He had to admit she was beautiful. Hard to believe she’s killed three people. He didn’t want to become number four and thought briefly about calling 911. But, hell, he had her gun, what could she do to him?

He picked up his Nikon D90 and started taking pictures of her. She was in profile, and looked spectacular silhouetted against the setting sun. Her eyes were closed and she had just a hint of a smile on her lips.

Candid shots of the notorious Lady in Red. They would be worth a fortune in worldwide sales. But the stills were just the appetizer in Blake’s plan. He had something much more spectacular in mind. He had the actual video of the Lady in Red having sex with the men she would kill eleven years later!

The commercial implications were staggering. Besides the millions of dollars it could gross in DVD, internet and licensing sales, it would be a great way for him to re-introduce himself to mainstream Hollywood. Hollywood was a sucker for comeback stories and what better comeback was there than capturing the notorious Lady in Red?

He zoomed in for an extreme close-up just as she opened her eyes, turned her head and looked right at him.

CLICK. CLICK. CLICK.

He took shot after shot. A dazzling smile lit up her face as the sunset scorched the sky behind her. Photographers wait hours for this kind of light. It was called the magic hour even though it usually only lasted about twenty minutes each day as the sun set.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Taking pictures of a beautiful woman. Do you mind?”

She thought about it, decided she had nothing to lose at this point; he’d be dead soon and she could take the camera. On second thought, she might leave the camera for the police to find, these pictures should look a lot better than those lousy surveillance shots they’re showing on TV. So she posed, playfully. “Not at all.”

CLICK. CLICK. CLICK.

“Did you ever model while you were in Denver?” Since Blake knew her wannabe actress from Denver story was bullshit, he thought it’d be fun to poke at the lie.

Actually, Alice’s actress friend, Dawn, did some modeling in Denver and had told her all about it. “I did,” Alice said, turning her head from one side to the other like she’d seen so many models do on TV. “Mostly print ads for Khol’s Department Store.”

“You should think about modeling in L.A.; you’re fabulous.”

“Thank you,” she said, sweetly.

All right, Blake thought. Enough of this; she is a cold-blooded killer after all, don’t get too cocky. He lowered the camera. “Time for that drink I promised.” He traded the Nikon for the bottle of Cakebread. “Would you get the glasses while I open the wine?” He pointed to a row of wine glasses hanging above the bar in the den.

“Sure,” she said, turning for the bar.

As soon as her back was turned, Blake swung the bottle.

Alice sensed the movement, started to turn but too late, the bottle whacked into the back of her skull. Her head snapped back and she went down.

Blake looked down at the unconscious woman at his feet. He’d done it!

Now the fun would begin.

Syd wrote down a name: Blake Hunter.

Could he be the next victim, Syd wondered? It was written on her yellow legal pad beneath six other names: Kris Adams, Jonathan Battle, Edward Bartowski, John Crystal, Ted Dearborn, and James Eagleton.