Alyssa Drake - A Perfect Plan

For my first fan, my mom

H e stared pitilessly, his mouth twisted cruelly as Mr. Matthew Hastings writhed uncontrollably on the mahogany desk. His arms flopped helplesslya dull thud, thud, thud. Heavy green drapes lining the picture window behind the desk blocked any moonlight from streaming into the room. Only the dim light of fading embers bathed Mr. Hastings and his guest at this early hour. No sound echoed in the sleeping house. Anonymity cloaked the sole witness to Mr. Hastings excruciating demise.

It is unfortunate I had to resort to this unpleasantness. The man shook his head with feigned sadness, a sneer hovering just on the edge of his lips. He paused, deep in contemplation, then spoke quietly as if explaining an important lesson to a child. I did caution youseveral timesover the past few months. However, you refused to heed my warning.

Leaning over, the man slid his fingers through Mr. Hastings hair, mostly black but highlighted by the graying of age. His grip tightened, and he wrenched Mr. Hastings head sideways. Pressing his lips to Mr. Hastings ear, he hissed intimately.

You have something I want, something that was promised to me when I was much younger. Since you are unwilling to relinquish possession

He indicated a half-empty glass of brandy resting precariously near the edge of the desk, just out of reach of Mr. Hastings twitching hand. The brandy taunted, its amber color glistened ominously. Mr. Hastings eyes rolled wildly as the toxin caused his body to spasm in a gruesome dance. His tongue remained paralyzed, locked, unable to form a simple word. Help.

The man released Mr. Hastings head, gently returning it to the desk, then stroked his fingers down the side of Mr. Hastings contorted cheek. This particular poison is quite painful. I must admit, I chose it because I knew it would cause you to suffer horribly.

Ugh, replied Mr. Hastings. His flopping body beat its slow rhythm againa fish gasping for its last breath of air. The raspy breathing echoed in the study. Although the sound was not loud enough to raise an alarm in the house, the mans eyes flew to the closed study door. Grabbing Mr. Hastings by his hair, the man yanked, crushing Mr. Hastings mouth with his hand.

Stop this nonsense, this instant, he hissed.

Jerking, Mr. Hastings threw his torso forward, ripping out of the mans grasp, as he stretched his out arm toward the poisoned snifter. His fingers brushed against the glass, sliding down the side. The glass scooted further away, teetering on the edge of the desk. With a lunge, Mr. Hastings wrapped his hand around the glass, locking tightly. Gasping twice, he shuddered, then exhaled, his body slumping onto the desk.

The man relaxed, straightening slowly. He studied Mr. Hastings with narrowed eyes, searching for any hint of movement. Nothing. He grinned and chuckled quietly as his gaze fell on the glass in Mr. Hastings grip.

No clues. He clucked his tongue. A good attempt, however, kindly remember, I am much smarter than you.

Prying the glass from Mr. Hastings stiff hand, the man dumped the remaining liquid into the fireplace. The fire hissed and burned red briefly before returning to its normal color. Wrapping the glass in a handkerchief, the man placed it carefully in his coat pocket. He patted the pocket twice before his eyes rose to meet Mr. Hastings empty gaze.

I am sorry to steal you so young from your lovely wife. The loss will be devastating for her. A horrid smile stretched across his lips. Please do not concern yourself with the well-being of your dear wife or your children; I intend to take good care of your family.

Ugh, ugh. Mr. Hastings choked. His hand slammed down on the desk. His head rolled to the side, lifting a centimeter from the desk. His blue eyes rolled madly, threatening to burst from their sockets. Agony racked his features, his entire face straining taut from the poisons brutal assault.

The man laughed quietly and stepped toward the desk, his voice scornful. You are a fighter. Perhaps I did not give you a large enough dose.

His hand slid into his breast pocket, fingers closing around a tiny brown vial. A wheezing breath escaped from Mr. Hastings lungs. He deflated, his body twisted grotesquely over the desk, a lifeless marionette. Eerie silence filled the study. Mr. Hastings empty eyes, permanently frozen in a moment of anguish, glared accusingly at the man.

Placing his fingers to the side of Mr. Hastings neck, the man nodded with satisfaction. He leaned over the body and rifled through the desk drawers, his hands groping into the far recesses. Each empty disappointment brought a growl to his lips. Taking care not to disturb Mr. Hastings corpse, the man slid his fingers under the desk, looking for a secret compartment or a hidden drawer. He found nothingnot a key, not a clue, nothingjust an ordinary desk.

With a snarl, he stood, his eyes scanning the study, absorbing every detail, every nook and cranny. This was the only room left in the townhouse he had not yet had the opportunity to search. Yet they continued to elude him. He shook his head, chewing his tongue as he glanced over at Mr. Hastings. Such an inconveniencethis murder businessalthough this was by no means his first horrendous act.

His eyes swept the room again, taking inventory; various trinkets from Mr. Hastings travels decorated the bookshelves along the walls. Mrs. Hastings ornate writing desk, hidden in the far corner, was situated to face the beautiful garden hidden behind the green curtains, instead of the center of the room.

Mr. Hastings once teased his wife at a dinner party her desk should be in his office since she spent most of her time on the business of correspondence, and all business should be performed in an office. In response to his remark, she requested the staff move her desk from the sitting room into his office the next morning, where she spent most of her time staring out the window at the foliage instead of writing letters.