Allison Brennan - Killing Fear

Lofton had pulled the chute and it tangled. He veered sharply south, falling too fast.

Sandy screamed.

Dirk Lofton hit the rocks 1,053 feet below.

Theodore bit back his smile. Pasted his look of oh my God, I can’t believe what I saw on his face. He was what he needed to be.

He turned to Sandy, who was in shock. Took her in his strong arms. “Don’t look,” he told her, his voice quivering-not from tears, not from fear-from intense satisfaction. The thrill!

Theodore pushed the memories back. Thinking about that first kill had satisfied him for a long, long time. But he’d known then, as he knew now, that faded memories had nothing on the here and now.

He watched William Hooper leave the police station with some hot Latina chick. A cop. Partners? When Hooper arrested Theodore, his partner was a fat slob named Frank Sturgeon. Perhaps he had retired? Been reassigned?

Theodore followed Hooper in the little Honda Acura he’d borrowed from his “friend” Jenny with the overused La-Z-Boy. She’d been more than happy to help him, and he’d kept the act up for her. “They’re going to kill me. They framed me and are going to kill me. I need to leave the country.”

She’d bought it, asked to go with him.

He’d looked into her idiotic eyes. “For your safety, sweetheart, you need to stay.”

She had nodded solemnly. A piece of cake.

Stealing money had been easy. His parents had always kept their emergency money in his father’s desk. Two thousand dollars in cash. And Sherry was just like them. She had five hundred dollars in an envelope with her panties.

So predictable.

He only needed the cash to get by for the next few days, until he could access his own money. He had plenty of money set aside to disappear. Before he started his little game with the strippers, he’d put money in a bank account he controlled under a shell corporation. Setting it up was easy as sin, and he’d quietly put money in, pulling it out for “legal fees.” Legal fees he’d paid one of his many “groupies.”

The system thought he was without friends while locked in prison? On the contrary, he had hundreds of fan letters like the ones from Jenny Olsen. He had letters from Bible-thumpers insisting he had been on a religious mission to rid the world of promiscuity, and they were praying for him.

Maybe their prayers brought the earthquake that freed him. Theodore laughed out loud at the thought.

He’d gotten letters from women who watched the trial on television. Women who thought he had been wrongly convicted, or who thought he was misunderstood, or who wanted to “stand by his side.” They sent pictures of themselves. Most were homely, overweight slobs, but one was quite attractive.

Sara Lorenz.

Dear Theodore:

I watched your trial and saw something in your face that told me you needed someone to listen. To listen and understand and not judge you. I am that person. I don’t know if you are guilty or not, and I don’t care. The system is unfair. I thought it was noble of you to represent yourself.

If you want to talk, about anything, call me. They let you make calls from prison, right? On television they do, but I don’t know if I can believe that. I’m giving you my phone number and my address so write me if you can’t call.

I’m a legal secretary. If you need me to do anything for you, let me know. Please. I’m happy to help.

I think they’re wrong about you. You have such pretty eyes.

Sincerely,

Sara

Sara, legal secretary, became his “attorney.” Theodore taught her how to forge the documents. And over the last few years they’d regularly corresponded and he had her discreetly funnel money out of his account for “legal fees,” paid to a legal corporation he controlled. Most of his legit money was tied up by a trustee for restitution to his victims’ families. Like they deserved his hard-earned wealth. But he was entitled to legal representation, and he used that loophole to hide cash.

He’d never planned on staying in prison forever. He had a plan for his last appeal. No matter what the judge decided, he would not be going back to prison.

The earthquake beat him to it.

He now had well over a quarter million dollars he could access easily, and even more he could extract with time and patience. Money would ensure his freedom, and after he finished taking care of those who had screwed him seven years ago, he would disappear.

He didn’t trust anyone, and he wasn’t going to start with some woman who contacted him in prison, regardless of how well she had been jumping through his hoops. He’d never given her control over all his resources. Just enough to get her to trust him and do what he needed. And so far, she’d performed beautifully. He might not even kill her.

He had doubts about going to Sara’s house. Though all correspondence was in the name of the corporation, he didn’t trust the system. If the police started digging, they could learn who Sara was and where she lived.

But he wanted to see her in person. Touch her. He hadn’t had sex in years, and Jenny Olsen up in Anaheim was a pig. The fags in prison had stayed the hell away from him after he nearly bit the dick off one who tried to force him. Sex wasn’t that important in the whole scheme of things. BASE jumping gave him a greater thrill than screwing. But now, after being celibate for so long, he suspected the thrill would be worth the risk.

The police probably didn’t even know about Sara, not this quickly.

But he would be careful. He’d fucked up before; he wouldn’t this time. He needed to dump Jenny’s car, and Sara would have one for him.

He followed William Hooper to a quiet little middle-class neighborhood. He stopped in front of a weed-choked yard framing a dilapidated house. Theodore drove on by. He didn’t need to know who lived there. He would find out soon enough.

He went back to the motel he was staying in. A little dive near the police station where he paid cash for a week and the fat broad behind the counter barely looked up from her soap operas except to count his money. It had taken him an hour to find the perfect place. He had done some shopping earlier, and now took the time to ready his room. The sheets on the bed had to go. He would not sleep on sheets others had used. He made the bed with new linens. Topped it with a new blanket. The sheets and filthy spread were folded and put in the closet.

Using the industrial-strength cleansers he’d purchased, he scoured every surface of the motel room. Adequate. The carpet he could do nothing about, but he would simply wear his shoes at all times, even when he slept. He sanitized the toilet and shower, then stripped and took a hot shower.

Better.

He drove back to the police station just as a news crew began to set up. It was dark and he blended in well.

Trinity Lange was talking to her cameraman. She had covered his trial and asked the tough questions. She was a sexy little thing, with blonde hair and dark eyes, a hint of Latina in her skin tone. Theodore didn’t particularly like mixed-race women, but this reporter could pull it off.

He didn’t plan on fucking her, anyway. He had other plans.

Suddenly, everything clicked into place. His blood flowed hot, his mind was sharp. The world glowed bright.

He pulled an envelope out of his back pocket. He’d retrieved it from under a shelf in the medieval history section of the downtown San Diego Public Library, where he’d secured it more than seven years ago. He’d made the right guess that no one would find it while he was incarcerated, and if they had, oh well. He’d put the photos there on the spur of the moment, the day after he killed Jessica.