Cole Carroll Edward - Silent rage : inside the mind of a serial killer

Books by Michael Newton

& published by

The Write Thought

Under the Hardboiled-Noir imprint:

The VICAP series featuring FBI agents Flynn and Tanner:

Blood Sport

Slay Ride

The Necro File

Head Games

Road Kills

Black Lace

Wet Work

Jigsaw

Dead Heat

Thrillers:

Cat and Mouse

Korea Kill

Child of Blood

China White

True Crime:

Silent Rage: Inside the Mind of a Serial Killer

From the Classic Wisdom on Writing Series:

How to Write Action Adventure Novels

Table of Contents

Armed and Dangerous: A Writers Guide to Weapons

BY

Hardboiled Noir

An imprint of The Write Thought, Inc.

Sanger, California

MICHAEL NEWTON

Copyright 1994 by Michael Newton

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

The Write Thought, Inc.

1254 Commerce Way

Sanger, California 93657

559-876-2170

Info@TheWriteThought.com

9781618092021 K

9781618092038 ePub

9781618092045 POD

__________________________________

For Gary. Long time passing.

Every society gets the kind of criminal it deserves.

Robert F. Kennedy

THE HUNTER

The car is parked in such a way that it conceals them from the street. Cole doesnt know whether its locked or not, but his prey makes it easy, leaning back against the door and reaching for him. Waste of time to wait, she says.

Cole agrees. As she flows into his arms for an embrace, his fingers lock around her throat.

With a practiced move, he cuts the legs out from under her and takes her down

PROLOGUE

The tavern starts to clear by half past one oclock. An old man nursing whiskey at the far end of the bar, a clink of glasses as the barkeep washes up. Slim pickings for the hunter as he lights another cigarette and sips his beer.

The barroom smells like smoke and sweat and wasted dreams. A country-western groaner on the jukebox, emphasizing failure, just in case late drinkers fail to get the point.

The hunter thinks he may have lost an evening, mostly sitting by himself and waiting for his luck to change. A pickup game of eight-ball with some rednecks he may never see again. No women in the place for hours.

Some nights, waiting serves to heighten his anticipation. Other times, the weariness creeps in and leaves him feeling empty.

Like tonight.

Still half an hour to closing time, but whats the point? Already low on cash, he doesnt need another beer to make him stagger on the walk back to his seedy rented room. Despite the hour and the neighborhood, he has no fear of being mugged along the way.

A slogan from a pop-art military poster comes to mind and makes him smile. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil for I am the baddest motherfucker in the valley.

Damn right.

He is resigned to leaving when the door swings open, new arrivals laughing louder than they need to, moving toward a corner booth. Three men, all Mexican, surround an Anglo woman in her early thirties. Blond, not bad to look at, round breasts straining at the fabric of her blouse.

The hunter takes points off for choice of company, imagining the four of them together in an old, low-rider Chevy. Three on one, the wetbacks getting what theyve always wanted most, the white slut getting paid in cash or all the liquor she can handle. Anything to make her come across.

And, then again, she may be one of those who takes to slumming. The perverse excitement of it, like a taste of some forbidden fruit. Not sweet, exactly often quite the oppositebut still invigorating, in a twisted kind of way.

Like sudden death.

A sweet-sick taste the hunter knows from long experience.

But there is nothing for him here.

He palms his bankroll, wishing there was more of it to go around. Another day or two, at most, and he will have to look for work. Whatever pays enough to rent a bar stool for the night, and if he has to lose the crummy room, so be it. He can always find himself another place to sleep.

About to put his money on the bar, he sees the blonde get up. Tight jeans to emphasize her ass and legs, a mental image of the denim down around her ankles while she services the wetbacks. Do they wait in line, he wonders, or attempt to take her all at once, wherever they can find an empty hand or hole?

The hunter frowns as she approaches him. A new expression on her face, not laughing now.

You mind if I sit down?

Free country.

He can smell her as she settles on the stool. Perfume and perspiration, with an undertone of musk. Familiar odors.

I was wondering, she says, if you could help me out.

Hows that?

These guys Im with, theyve had a lot to drink. I mean, we all have, but its getting out of hand, okay? You want to ditch them.

Will you help me?

Three on one is sucker odds. He glances at the barkeep, rinsing glasses, wondering how much the man has seen, or if he has enough invested in the place to give a damn. Some like to settle problems on their own, while others leave it all to the police.

The hunter doesnt need police tonight.

Across the room, the Mexicans have picked up on her act by now. One of them is on his feet and bitching to the others. Heated Spanish, the machismo kicking in with a tequila booster. All three moving toward the bar now, just a tad unsteady on their feet.

You got a problem, ese?

Turning slowly on his stool, the hunter looks their self-appointed mouthpiece up and down. No problem I can see.

You better get your eyes checked, man. The lady came with us.

An old, familiar chill inside the hunter now. Prepared for anything, and screw the odds. He smiles.

That doesnt mean shes leaving with you, Pancho.

Hey, pendejo, how about we fuck you up?

He has one hand around the sweaty Lone Star bottle, calculating its trajectory and what will follow, when a sound like giant knuckles rapping on the bar distracts him. The proprietor is scowling at his latest customers and tapping on the bar top with a leaded baseball bat.

Nobodys fucking anybody up in here unless I do the fucking, get it? Waiting for the punks to take it in before he adds, Its time to say good-bye.

The wetbacks calculating now, deciding that an Anglo puta isnt worth the risk of broken bones and time in jail. They exit muttering, same slouching walk that every young Latino seems to learn at puberty, one of them spitting on the floor. A puny parting shot.

The blonde has found her smile again. You saved my life.

I doubt it.

Anyway, I owe you one.

In case the hunter doesnt get her point, she takes his hand and places it between her legs, thighs trapping him. He lets his fingers do the walking, makes her squirm against the stool.

You have a name?

He nods. Most people do.

Is it a secret?

Eddie

Pleased to meet you, Eddie. Squeezing with her thighs. Im Wanda.

Want a drink?

She licks her lips. Why not.

He pays the tab one-handed, hoists his beer the same way. Heat communicated from the woman to his fingers, knowing if he slipped his hand inside her panties, he would find her wet and waiting.