Sample Chapters

Chapter 1

She sat in front of her computer, starring at the screen, and idly tapped a single key over and over. Her foot kept time to an imaginary beat. Deadline was just a month away and she had nothing; not one single creative thought.

Picking up the notes from her interview, she thumbed through them. It was futile. There wasn’t a word in those five handwritten pages that she hadn’t read a thousand times.

“ Come on, Riley O’Shea,” she said, as her gaze crisscrossed over the page. All she saw was a jumble of disjointed thoughts that didn’t even come close to the proper prose she needed to create a novel.

Riley rolled her back into her chair and blew out a long breath. How had something she loved so much become the fulcrum of her emotional distress? The answer was simple. Nine months ago her muse had deserted her. Though the answer was simple, the solution wasn’t.

Her head began to pound and Riley gently rubbed her eyes. She wasn’t sure if she was relieving the pain, or stemming the tide of hopeless tears that welled up within her.

Riley stood and walked towards the kitchen. As she passed the mirror in the hallway, she stopped and starred at her reflection. Slowly, she traced a line that traveled across her brow. She couldn’t believe it was so deep. Riley quickly dropped her hand and stiffened her spine. After sneering at the mirror she turned away. “Tomorrow I’m taking the damn thing down.”

Just as Riley entered the kitchen, the phone began to ring. She stopped in her tracks and stared at it. After the fourth ring the answering machine clicked on.

“Hey, Riley, how are you doing?” Just calling to see where you are on the book. When you get this message, give me a call. Talk to you soon.”

Riley flipped the machine the bird, but she wasn’t really angry at Rick. He was doing exactly what an agent should. For a brief moment she was half-tempted to pick up the phone and confess, but she knew she was too sober to do that.

Her gaze shifted to the empty wine bottle that sat next to her computer. It was a vivid reminder of last night’s attempt at writing.

Despair had spiraled through every aspect of her life. She dreaded public appearances and even little trips to the grocery store. The thought of a fan recognizing her and asking the inevitable question, when was her next book coming out, made Riley break out in a cold sweat.

A spark of sunlight refracted off the glass. The bottle never asked questions. It was an undemanding friend. There was, however, another friend that wasn’t quite as obliging. Her mentor, Jim Chancellor, was nearly as affected by Riley’s writer’s block as she was. Still, Riley knew he’d never stop looking out for her.

From the moment they’d met at a writer’s group, he’d championed her. Providing guidance, criticism and praise, Jim was the best friend a writer could have, but she knew he was much more.

Riley pressed her hip against the counter’s edge and thought of her life before Jim. At twelve, she’d lost her father to cancer. Since that time Riley had grown up without real male guidance. Seven years ago, Jim had stepped in to fill that void. From installing a ceiling fan, to showing her how to install her money in the right investments, he was always there for her. Riley smiled. With no children of his own, Jim had made her his surrogate daughter. That was why, Riley hated failing him so badly.

She moved to the refrigerator and opened it. A single bottle of Dom Perignon sat behind a half opened carton of Chinese food. Her gaze shifted to the toaster. Riley shook her head and drew the bottle out. She popped the cork. If she was going to be a drunk, at least she’d be a classy one.

Within seconds, she had a flute filled and halfway down when the doorbell rang. Riley shot her gaze to the living room door. She wasn’t expecting anyone, or any deliveries. For a split second she thought she’d ignore it then the bell pealed again and again in quick succession.

“Oh, hell, it’s probably just Jehovah’s Witnesses,” Riley said, before taking another sip of the wine.

Setting the glass down, she cinched the belt of her robe tighter before heading to the door. Whoever it was she’d tell them a thing or two and send them on their way.

Once at the door, she peeked out the sidelight. A man carrying a large arrangement of flowers stood on the stoop. The spray was so immense she couldn’t see his face.

“He has to have the wrong address,” she whispered to the glass. Riley twisted the bolt and opened the door.

From behind the array of blooms, the man said, “Are you Riley O’Shea?” His deep voice resonated, commanding attention. Riley pulled down her brow and answered, “Umm, yeah.”

“Then these are for you,” the deliveryman said as he lifted the arrangement just a little higher.

“Okay….,” Riley replied as she reached for the flowers, but quickly changed her mind when she realized the enormous bouquet was even wider than the doorway. S he took a small step back and asked, “Would you mind setting them down in the living room for me?”

“Sure.”

As he took a step forward, she asked, “Can you tell me who they’re from?”

The delivery man grunted. “Ma’am, I just deliver the flowers. I don’t read the cards.”

Of course, what a stupid question , Riley thought.

With her back pressed against the front door, she watched as he made his way into her house. When he passed her, a shudder ran up her spine and Riley pressed harder against the door. He was enormous. He had to be well over six foot, possibly six-five. He had his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows to expose huge bulging muscles. There was something about him…something about the feeling he gave off that brought that same sick feeling to the pit of her stomach….the same feeling she got when she did her interviews.

Riley shook her head. God girl, get a grip.You’ve been walking through the dark side of life so long that it’s bleeding over into your mind.

“Where’d you like me to set these down?” he called out.

She took a cleansing breath, and moved into the living room. “On the coffee table, please,” Riley answered.

It was when he lowered the vase of flowers to the table that the man’s face suddenly came into view. Riley sucked in a quick breath, but didn’t want to embarrass him or herself.

To say his face was repulsive would be taking it easy. Scars ran down both sides of his neck, and across his forehead was a rudimentary upside down cross. Riley was sure it had been placed there solely for the purpose of grabbing attention. It sure had hers. On his massive forearms the same upside down crosses ran from wrist to elbow. This guy was way off the creepy meter. Riley was about to chastise herself for not listening to her gut instincts, but instead she stepped to the other side of the coffee table to keep some distance between them.

When the man reached inside his jeans pocket, Riley held her breath. He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and a pen, he pushed it at her. “I need you to sign here.”

Tentatively, she reached for the paper and pen, avoiding any chance of touching him.

“So you’re the famous Riley O’Shea,” he said as she put her initials on the receipt.

Riley knew that when she’d chosen to write books about serial killers, she’d be asking for a certain weird, cross-section of fans. It came with the territory. But this guy was beyond peculiar. His tone was more lascivious than reverent, and his eyes, damn they unnerved her. They didn’t blink, not once during the full second that she stared at them, and they clearly didn’t signal even the slightest amount of admiration. No, there was something so cold in them that it sent a chill up Riley’s spine. He smiled, and all Riley could think of was that he looked like a cat that had caught the canary.

Her hands grew clammy. Riley had to get this guy out of her house as quickly as possible.

“Yes. I am,” she said, handing him the signed paper.

“I’ve read two of your books. I couldn’t put them down.”

“That’s what every author wants to hear,” Riley replied in a voice that squeaked despite her effort to mask her discomfort. She dropped her gaze to the flowers and removed the card from the plastic holder. God, I hope this guy gets the idea that I’m not interested in small talk.Unfortunately, he didn’t. Instead she felt his eyes on her and the hairs on the back of her neck lifted.

“My favorite was the Ronald Domi book,” the deliveryman continued. “He was cool.”

The man’s choice of words struck Riley as odd. In real life, Domi had killed seventeen coeds and cut off their hair as souvenirs. “ Cool” wasn’t quite the word Riley would use to describe a mass murderer. This conversation was growing more uncomfortable by the minute.

“I guess so.” Riley answered.

Her heart raced as she looked in every direction except his face and that upside down cross on his forehead. Her lungs shortened but she managed take a small breath.

“Well, I’m getting ready to go to a book signing,” Riley lied.

Shit, why isn’t he leaving? Instead, the delivery man just stood there.

“You really have a talent.” He spoke rapidly as he added, “I mean you captured everything, the killer’s state of mind, the victim’s last moments. It felt like I was there.” The excitement in his voice scraped on every nerve in her body until all Riley wanted to do was scream.

“Thank you for the compliment,” Riley managed to squeeze out of her shortened lungs.

She took a step towards the door and asked, “Is there something else I need to sign?”

When she didn’t hear his footsteps following her, Riley stopped and turned back to him. As his gaze shifted over her, Riley pulled the collar of her robe closer together. When he licked his lips her stomach clenched.

“Nope. Nothing else to sign,” he finally answered.

His matter-of-fact voice did little to assuage her discomfort. She tried to calm herself down, but her instincts refused to be appeased. Her mind jumped from thought to thought. Why hadn’t she stayed at the front door? Could she reach the phone and dial 911 before he wrenched it away from her? Could she get to the knives in the kitchen before he did? There was no way in hell she could, but she knew she had to try.

“Riley? Are you home?”

The surprised look on Jim’s face clearly showed he was unaware of the situation as he walked from the foyer into the living room. Riley rushed up and wrapped her arms around him. She held onto Jim as tightly as she could.

The deliveryman lingered for three very long and uncomfortable seconds, looking at Jim with narrowed eyes. Then the man said, “I guess it’s time for me to get back to my other deliveries. Doubt if I’ll have anybody else as famous as you.”

Riley felt her hand shake as she rubbed Jim’s arm for comfort and strength. “You never know,” Riley answered.

When the man paused at the front door Riley prayed he wouldn’t turn back to them.

“No. I’m sure that you’re my best catch,” he stopped in mid-sentence and shot out a forced laugh, “I mean delivery of the day.”

Once again, the man’s cold eyes penetrated deep into her. She trembled. He must have had the same effect on Jim because his grip on Riley’s arm tightened.

As the deliveryman made his way out the door, he added, “I’ll be right there to read your latest novel. I promise you that.”

“That’s good to know.”

“Enjoy your flowers, ma’am.”

Riley looked up, but didn’t let go of Jim’s arm until after the massive deliveryman was out the door. Then she hurriedly rushed over and quickly bolted the door. From behind it, Riley angled herself to peek out the sidelight. Her heart still hammering, she watched as the guy got into a white Ford van with no business logo on the side.

Blowing out a long breath, Riley turned to Jim. “Wasn’t that guy creepy?” Riley asked still shaking.

“Hell, yes.” Jim gave an exaggerated nod. “He looked like he’d walked right out of a horror movie.”

“Exactly,” Riley said. Pressing her back to the door, she closed her eyes. When the vision of that huge tattooed arm, wielding a knife, came plunging towards her, Riley snapped her eyes opened and shook her head.

The strength she saw in Jim’s face calmed her enough to say what she thought. “I kept feeling that it was almost like he was sizing me up or something.”

Jim’s eyebrows arched and he gave her a quick smile. “Let’s hope not.”

He turned toward the flowers and whistled. “That’s some bouquet. Who are they from, anyway?”

Riley knew what Jim was doing, and she loved him for it. “I have no idea,” she answered. “Let’s look at the card.”

She pulled away from the door and stepped to the flowers on the table. Riley picked up the card from the table. “From a new admirer,” she read out loud. Riley rolled her eyes and said, “Great”

Jim smiled. “That’s what you get being famous.”

Riley settled her gaze on Jim’s face and laughed. With the sound of her laughter still filling the air, she said, “You know, I half expected them to be from you, another one of your psychological ploys to help me break through my writer’s block.”

“Would I do something like that?” Jim said with a smile and a wink.

Riley returned Jim’s smile and said, “Hel-lo. You’ve got me going to that damn awards dinner next week. So I wouldn’t put sending me this whole floral shop bouquet past you.”

“It’s not like every writer gets named the Chicago Literary Guild’s Writer of the Year.”

She rolled her eyes to the ceiling and widened her smile. “It’s not like every writer is friends with the president of the Guild.”
“A mild coincidence,” Jim said with a shrug.

Riley saw the opportunity arise. Maybe it wasn’t too late. “Seriously, though, I’m considering not going.”

Jim’s expression immediately changed. “But why? You’re certainly worthy of the award.”

The expression on Jim’s face told her that she couldn’t back out. It would break his heart. She couldn’t do that even though she dreaded the penetrating eyes of the audience. She decided that she would attend the presentation, but she would leave as soon as she gave her speech. Jim would just have to deal with that. “Hardly.” Riley answered, as she walked toward the kitchen. “You and I both know I can’t put together a single sentence right now.”

“No one knows that except you and me. Besides, this award is for your body of work over the years. You’ve had bestseller after bestseller.”

She lifted the bottle of champagne and refilled her glass. Riley didn’t have to see the look on Jim’s face to know that his eyes were on the glass, but she didn’t care. Not now, she needed something to calm her. “The public can never get enough blood.”

“Nor can they get enough of your writing,” Jim countered back.

After taking a sip of her wine, Riley said, “I don’t know. With all of those eyes staring directly at me I’m sure they’ll see right through me?”

She turned away and took another drink of the champagne. It snaked its way through her, soothing her raw nerves as it went. “They’re going to know.”

Jim stepped up behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder. The warmth of it matched the warmth the alcohol was bringing to her stomach.

“Of course they won’t,” he said. “They can’t read your mind. If they could, they’d probably offer you encouragement. Every author has had writer’s block one time or another.”

Riley turned to Jim and snapped out, “But not for nine months.” To soften the blow of her words, she brought the glass to her lips.

Jim angled his gaze at the glass and frowned. “Starting early today, aren’t we?”

“Might as well,” she said. “It’s the only thing that helps.”

“That’s not true and you know it. You’ll break through this. We all do.”

“When?” Riley felt her frustration edging upward but the softness in Jim’s eyes quickly tempered it.

“You know, if I could take it from you, I would,” Jim said. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes to help you.”

“I know you are.” Riley said through a sigh. “Please don’t let my frustration get to you so much, though.”

Jim smiled. “It doesn’t.” He gave her an exaggerated shrug. “Well, not really, anyway.”

Riley gave his shoulder a shove and laughed, “Jim.”

“Alright.” He laughed as he put his hands up to ward off her censure. “But I can’t help it. I don’t want to see you suffer.”

Jim took her glass and set it down on the counter. “Why don’t you try writing fiction?” You probably need a break from your serial killer research to knock this dry spell right out.” He shuddered. “That stuff would get to anyone after a while.”

Her head began pounding. Riley closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her temples. “We’ve had this conversation before. When a reader sees Riley O’Shea on the cover of a book, they expect to read about the true life and times of a modern day serial killer.”

Jim gently brushed her hands away and began to massage her temples. “Never hurts to try. You know how much I hate you having anything to do with those animals.”

Riley felt the pain lesson with each small circle his fingers made. “But I have to do research if I’m going to write about them.”

She pushed out a huffing breath. “I just don’t know how to break it. I’ve talked to different members of the victim’s families, pored over the police reports and interviewed my killer five times. I’ve analyzed and re-analyzed every detail, yet nothing comes out.”

“I have confidence that you’ll get it.” When his massaging stopped, Riley opened her eyes. “You just need some kind of change”

“Like that would help.” She lifted her gaze to her computer. “Sometimes I wonder if I wouldn’t be better off going someplace where there were no distractions. If we could wall me off and stick me in front of a computer, make sure there were no television, no telephones, no outside stimuli, than I’d have no choice but to write.”

“You did that months ago.” Jim smiled. “Remember the trip to Montana?”

Riley remembered it clearly. After two weeks of being in that cabin in Montana, she left with not a single word and a liquor bill the size of the national debt.

“Yeah, but this would be different,” she added. “I’m talking about locking me up in a padded cell, or something. I wouldn’t be able to leave like the last time. I’d be someplace where they don’t let me out until the damn book was done.” Riley tried to smile but the desperation she felt wouldn’t allow it.

“Wasn’t there some writer who had his wife lock him in everyday until he slid a certain number of pages under the door? That’s what I need,” she said flatly.

Jim smiled. “I said I’d help you if I could, but I don’t think I could lock you up.”

Jim’s declaration had Riley laughing as she said, “Where’s a real friend when you need them.”

Chapter 2

At nine on a Saturday night, the bookstore was nearly empty. A few dedicated souls sat on the couches, taking in the latest from their favorite author. While others read the newspapers, too cheap to purchase them.

Jericho Sampson walked through the aisles with a purpose. He knew exactly what he wanted. The true crime section encompassed six separate bookcases, each shelf filled to capacity. Bloodlust and killing were hot commodities. He scanned the books, quickly finding the section with the authors whose last name began with the letter O. He ran his finger along the spines until he found Riley’s books. She was the best author he’d had ever read.

Since he’d already read Death Is At Your Door and The Bone Collector, he lifted the four remaining titles from the shelf. These would complete his collection.

Selections in hand, Jericho headed to the front of the store and set his books on the counter. The clerk, a girl who couldn’t have been older than sixteen, was straightening the bills in her cash drawer. She said hello, but didn’t bother to look directly at him as she pulled the first of his books in front of her.

She looked at the book and she said, “This book is crazy good!”

When she lifted her gaze to Jericho’s face her jaw slacked and her eyes widened. It was a full five seconds before she went back to scanning the rest of his books.

Jericho was accustomed to these looks. He rather enjoyed how most people were intimidated by his massive size. What really got him off was the tension that sparked through the air when they first saw the cross on his forehead. Just like the bookstore cashier’s reaction was now. Those looks affirmed what Jericho had known since he was a teenager. He was different.

“Ya, Riley’s a great author. These are going to complete my collection.” Keeping her gaze on the register, she recited his total. The cashier’s discomfort made him prolong the transaction.

“I had the chance to meet her the other day,” he said. His eyes never left the cashier. He watched her fingers shake when she tried to press the button to complete his transaction. He had complete control over the girl without having said a word. Her body shook before him. Boo! That was all he needed to say to get her to jump through the ten foot ceilings. Euphoric wasn’t a strong enough adjective to explain how he felt. Absolute power and control over another human being. The only thing he needed to make this better would be a private session with the young girl. Still not lifting her gaze to his face, the teen busied herself with putting the books in a bag. “That must have been fun,” the clerk said in a voice that wasn’t much more than a whisper.

“It sure was and she looks even better in person.”

Jericho fished into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a crumpled fifty-dollar bill. He unfolded it slowly and placed it on the counter. When the clerk reached to take it, he shot his hand out and clamped it over hers. She yelped and tried to pull her hand back, but he wouldn’t let her. Slowly, he squeezed until she looked up at him. Tears welled up and glazed her eyes.

Jericho looked down at her arm. Goosebumps lined her forearm. She was scared…scared to death. Blood coursed through his veins. His senses heightened. Suddenly, he could hear her heartbeat racing, he could smell the salt that came from the sheen of sweat that broke out all over her body, and he could taste her fear. She was primed for him. He could begin his quest now if he wanted. Her life energy was at its’ peak. But now wasn’t the time.

When he finally released her hand, she quickly pulled it to her body. Jericho knew from this point forward, the fear he’d impregnated in her would forever live in her psyche and her dreams. Every time she entered a dark room, that fear would strike again. The thought sent a rush that vibrated through him, exploding every nerve with excitement.

“Go ahead and keep the change, honey,” Jericho said with a smile as he slowly moved his gaze up and down her body.

He took his books from the counter and headed towards the exit. After six steps, he turned and walked back to the counter. Savoring the fear in her eyes, and the shiver that made the ends of her chin length hair dance, he smiled. He loved the effort it took for her to stifle the urge to run. This was good, very good. When he stepped to the counter, he stopped close enough to smell the fresh spot of urine he knew was wetting her panties.

Jericho widened his smile and leaned in. “Who knows?” he whispered. Maybe someday Riley will write about me.”

With the smile still in place, Jericho turned back to the exit. He pushed out a long slow breath. His need to watch the young clerk’s reaction had been satisfied.

Once outside, Jericho hopped into his van and started the engine. While the engine ran, he reached into the bag of books and pulled out the small stack. Carefully, he examined each one. Life was good and now his plan was coming together. Jericho slowly ran his thumb over Riley’s picture on the back cover of his book.

“One last piece,” he said to Riley’s image. “One last piece and my ultimate journey begins.”

He smiled as he remembered when it all came together for him. Three months ago, as he watched the news on TV, the reporter told of a man that had been involved in a crash. The individual had been thrown from his car. Though badly injured, the man raced back to the burning car to save his trapped children.

Over and over again, the father pulled at the car door, but it was jammed shut. It wasn’t until the flames leapt into the front seat that the man suddenly ripped the door off of its hinges and grabbed his children out of arms of death.

No one could explain how the man was able to have such superhuman strength, but suddenly Jericho understood. The convergence of fear, and total loss of hope, would summon a level of strength that existed in times of utter desperation.

It was what Jericho called ‘life’s energy’. He’d seen it the day he murdered his family.

His laughter exploded in the hollow van. Jericho knew that if he instilled abject fear, and inflicted unbearable pain, the person created an increased supply of “life energy”. If he’d timed things correctly--killing his victim at just the right moment--- Jericho could cut them open and absorb their life energy into his body. With each murder, the energy would accumulate and lead to his metamorphosis to a demi-god. Once that happened, no weapon and no person could stop him. Jericho would rule the world.

At the time Jericho realized that his journey had to be chronicled, to give him his proper place in history. That’s where Riley O’Shea would come in. Jericho began to laugh. He was so clever.

As he drove home, he couldn’t stop laughing. When Jericho pulled up to the front of the house, his loud laughter rattled the windows of the van. He was clever…so very, very clever. The rebuilt house stood as a monument to his intelligence.

The newly constructed building was an exact duplicate of the one that stood on that very spot before…before Jericho put a match to it.

That day he executed a plan that had festered for many years. His mother had hated him from the moment he was born, always saying how she’d wished he’d been a girl. His two sisters, like his mother, had despised men and the girls buttered their mother’s healthy ego.

Jericho curled his fingers around the steering wheel and squeezed. The long ago ridicule still ate at him, but that day he’d proved just how smart he was.

There wasn’t a single spark or something that tilted the scales over the edge. Maybe it was a lifetime of harassment and subservience. Who knew for sure? But whatever it was that day, it was enough to make him say that he’d had enough.

His mother was in the kitchen cooking up another rancid meal. The smell was offensive, which was the norm for their household. She was bitching at him over something that he had done or hadn’t done, which led to her vitriolic rant about the uselessness of men. He had heard the same speech thousands of times. On this occasion though, the simmering fire inside of his body received a new breath of oxygen. Instead of burning embers, his rage grew to an inferno.

In the car, the rage from that fateful day returned. The car raced faster to mirror his heartbeat. “Stupid bitch!” He grabbed his half full can of soda and threw it against his windshield. Cola splattered all over him, the seat, and the glass. He didn’t care. It didn’t change the fact that his mother managed to cheat him, even in death.

His sisters would have to pay for their mother’s transgression. In their deaths, he would not be cheated. They were so stupid. They walked into the house, called out his name, and expected him to carry their backpacks upstairs as mother had made him do for the last seventeen years. He played the good brother long enough for them to turn around. A broom handle to the back of their heads knocked them unconscious. Now he had plenty of time to set up.

He tied the women up and dragged them into the bathroom. With the windows and door nailed shut, and the fire started, Jericho went outside to watch.

After a few minutes of sitting on the grass, watching the flames lick the old frame house, his sister Anne came to. She repeatedly banged her head on the glass to break it. Blood poured down her forehead as the flames inched closer and closer. Jericho had expected her to die without a fight, to accept her fate, as she finally saw his superiority, but instead, Anne fought harder as her energy surged. Only when the flames engulfed her body did that energy fade.

That’s how Jericho knew, the combination of pain and terror were the key ingredient of the entity he wanted to absorb.

As the moonlight cut into the upper floor windows, Jericho nodded. He was smart. No one had ever guessed that it wasn’t an electrical short that caused the fire, and the payout from his mother’s life insurance policy was a financial windfall. Rebuilding, and living in a house on the same property he’d shared with his mother and sisters was Jericho’s way of exerting a dominance over them that he’d not been able to attain while they were alive. Soon the world would know his superiority and Riley O’Shea would journalize his ascension.