Fade Out

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Fade Out – L.K. Ellwood
Suspense/Thriller – $.99 eBook

eBook  available at the following merchants:
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Smashwords * 1Romance

What does one expect to find in the mind of a killer? Veronica Russo, bent on avenging the murder of her sister, seeks a therapeutic alternative to mayhem keeping a journal at a writer’s workshop, but finds her desire for destruction is too powerful to ignore.

(This story appeared in part in a previous release, Dangerous Words.)

EXCERPT

Such pretty hands. Not a crease in her almond skin, and oh, how they move with each flip of the card. Fluid, with care, turning them slowly in quiet explanation, as though I were the first Tarot novice ever to park in front of her cockeyed card table.

Everything about her dazzles, from the large hoops hanging from her earlobes to the African-pattern turban wrapped into a rounded cone on her head; not one wisp of hair curling from the fabric, either. She looks as if some modern-day Pygmalion carved her from dark ivory, breathed life into her, and set her out into Jackson Square…innocent eyes luring tourists with loaded wallets and buzzed brains to her questionable operation. So pretty.

I hadn’t even flinched when she revealed to me that each card in my reading represented some level of impending danger. Why should I worry anyway? Tarot is bullshit, a fanciful parlor game where each Hanged Man and Queen of Cups can represent one of a million different things—from death to multiple orgasms to a television with fuzzy reception. So what if the waiter thought I would be wasting my money crossing the street for a reading? It was worth the few dollars to touch, even for a moment, that delicate, soft hand as I folded the bills into her palm. More enjoyable than spending it on an overpriced, watered-down Hurricane from some gimmick-themed bar. Nice to know after Katrina these places managed to reopen in a timely manner.

She’s with another customer now, and I am watching them from a small table underneath the canopy of Cafe du Monde, sipping black coffee (none of their famous cafe au lait for me, not while my sugar’s high) from a hot paper cup in between these disjointed musings. I wouldn’t say he’s a fat man, the customer, though he does have quite a paunch drooping over his belt. I assume he’s a conventioneer, like many of us here (I can tell this because I’m sure a local knows better than to mess with the plaza Tarot readers), but I do not recognize him from any of the writing seminars.

He’s obviously been drinking. I can see the ruddiness of his nose and hear his boisterous voice, even over the din of the young saxophone player perched just outside the cafe. He (the sax man) is dressed in torn jeans and looks like he just stepped out of a music video. If I weren’t so suspicious (for all I know, this guy arrived at the corner in his Corvette) I’d give him the other five in my purse and tell him to get some dinner. I might just do that anyway. Might as well be fair to all the members of this eternal sideshow called New Orleans. They had a rough ride—more intense than mine, some would argue.

Not that I mind. I just had to get out of the hotel for a while, and away from Jack. He seems like a nice enough guy, but I get the impression…oh, I don’t know. I feel like he’s watching me in the sense that a lion watches a frail doe bend its head to drink from a lake, planning the pounce in his mind over and again, waiting for the proper moment to strike. During one of the first orientation seminars I stole a glance or two in his direction and sensed a peculiar energy around him, and it discomforted me.

Oh, terrific, now I’m getting swept up into the voodoo silliness of this town, talking of energies and auras. I suppose I’ll end up telling fortunes at Dealey Plaza when I get home. Flipping cards at Dealey for dollars. Dealey for Dollars. Dialing for Dollars. Dialing for Dollars in Dallas. Dallas, Texas. Dollars, Taxes. Does this satisfy my twisted metaphor requirement, Professor Welk? You of the silver quill convinced every conferee can’t rub two pencils together to make a sentence? Asshole.

I wish Eileen were here with me. I need her here to watch me in case I have another attack, to help me monitor my sugar intake and remind me to take my shots. She would have loved New Orleans, too. We could have had fun browsing the numerous tacky souvenir shops around town. What would she have said about the scantily-clad strippers hanging from the Bourbon Street club doorways in enticing poses, hoping to horde in plenty of inebriated, horny men to witness a simulated sex act while hustling them for drinks? Eileen would have laughed at all of it…but the only laughter I hear from her now comes from my memory. Even that is starting to blend into everyday sounds…that song in my head that won’t go away, masking what little I have left of her. Damn you, Eddie!

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, coming here to learn to write. I don’t know why I chose a place away from home.
I lie, I know why. I wanted to get out of Fort Worth, out of Texas, and away from the apartment complex where some doddering old man in a tank T-shirt and Sansabelt slacks found my sister’s bludgeoned, lifeless body next to her passed-out prick of a husband. Away from the even bigger asshole with the long black robe and humorless countenance who allowed Eddie to go free on a technicality despite his obvious guilt. Son of a bitch! Just slapped that murdering bastard’s wrist and wagged a finger at him as a mother would to a disobedient child. Now, Edward, we all know you killed her, and maybe she asked for it, but I’m giving you one last chance. Try not to kill anyone else. Okay, snickerpuss?

It’s been two months since the trial’s end, six since I buried my only sibling. His Honor died of a heart attack three weeks ago, or so everyone thinks.

I needed to get away anyway, at least to alleviate any suspicion on me. It wouldn’t necessarily take a true analytical genius to piece together my knowledge of chemistry and desire for retribution, and I’m not taking any chances. Sure, the judge had a bad diet, used his treadmill as a coat rack, and had nearly every gay rights activist in Texas screaming for his balls on a platter—I’m not stupid, though. I know heads could be turned my way if there’s a small slip-up, especially when Eddie gets his. And he will.