LITMIR.BIZ

       Three

      Coventry Court, Norcross, Georgia

      3:00 a.m.

      “We’ve been friends for a very long time, Randolph. I’ve carried out your every request—even the ones I should have categorically denied. I have kept your secrets just as you requested.”

      Randolph Weller set his unfinished cup of tea aside. It had grown cold anyway. “I find your pathetic pleas to be quite tedious, Lawrence.”

      Lawrence Zacharias’s face paled. “Just tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it. Anything. Anything at all. There’s no need to resort to this barbaric behavior.”

      Poor, poor Lawrence. The injury to his forearm had stopped bleeding hours ago, yet one would think he’d suffered a fatal stab wound. The bloody mess left in his study had been the man’s own doing. He’d hoped to send the authorities on a hunt for a killer rather than a fleeing attorney. Frankly, Randolph had expected far more from his old friend. There really was little the man could do now. He was tied to his chair. He could scarcely breathe much less move with the rope wound tightly around his arms, legs and chest. Randolph sighed. Such a waste of true brilliance.

      “I fear it’s far too late for posturing and gestures now.” Randolph cocked his head and studied his old friend. “You see, after I spoke to Lucille, I decided to watch you, Lawrence. The courier you hired is in the other room. He told me about the package. Did you know it was intercepted by Special Agent LeDoux?”

      When the other man only stared at him with utter defeat in his eyes, Randolph went on, “I’m certain you didn’t. When I learned the addressee, I understood exactly what you’d done. You see, Lawrence, when you decide to betray a man like me, there are certain steps you should not trust to anyone save yourself. If you had personally handled the package, you might very well have made your flight to Maracaibo.” He shook his head. “Too bad. I understand the governor himself had selected a luxury villa for you. I’m certain you would have been quite happy spending your twilight years there.”

      “No one knows where you are—you still have time to disappear,” Lawrence said quickly as if he’d gained his second wind in the race against certain death. “No one knows anything.”

      The former was true. Randolph should be well on his way to Morocco. Lawrence had purchased the small desert palace for him years ago. Randolph had always planned to slip away one day. He’d cultivated the perfect pawns to facilitate the move. His son’s obsession with Detective Bobbie Gentry had provided the classic opportunity. Randolph had dreamed of rich, mahogany-skinned men and delicious domestic maids catering to his every whim, including serving as inspiration for his beloved art.

      But then a loose end he should have clipped long ago unraveled his well-laid plans and, unfortunately, Lawrence was wrong about the latter of his claims. Someone did know something and now Randolph had no choice but to tidy up that annoying thread before disappearing. If there was anything in this world he wanted as much as the freedom to create his art, it was revenge. It was a rather base instinct but, despite popular belief, Randolph was only human. Where Nicholas was concerned, the absolute best revenge was to ensure he remained steadfast on his current path. Nothing would make Randolph happier than knowing his son would forever remain alone and in the shadows, afraid of who and what he might become. The quintessential tragedy.

      “There are two people who know my deepest, darkest secret, Lawrence.” Randolph stood. He unbuttoned the light wool suit jacket. He had to give his old friend credit—he’d had everything Randolph needed waiting for him in that Huntsville, Alabama, storage locker, including transportation. He removed the jacket and placed it carefully on the back of the chair he’d vacated.

      “I made a mistake,” Lawrence urged. “I can take care of it. Now. This minute. Let me...let me help you, Randolph.” His words had begun to slur.

      Ah, the timing was flawless. The high-powered muscle relaxer would render Lawrence quite helpless. Randolph crossed the room and opened the liquor cabinet. He’d stored the items he would need there, including the half-empty bottle of Scotch he’d laced. The moment was, admittedly, gratifying. Randolph had been in prison for fourteen years, three months and six days, and he still hadn’t lost his touch.

      “Dear God,” Lawrence muttered thickly.

      Randolph chuckled. “God can’t help you now, Lawrence.” He removed the carefully folded white sheet from the shelf below the whiskey tumblers and spread it on the floor. “You see—” he walked toward his old friend “—God holds no dominion over me.”

      Randolph released the knot and unwound the rope. Lawrence slumped forward, tried to move but his body failed him. Still, he grunted and gnashed his teeth.

      “Now, now, Lawrence, you know there’s nothing you can do. Why put on this pathetic display?”

      Randolph reached under the drugged man’s shoulders and lifted him, then dragged him to the middle of the room. He arranged him, arms stretched out to his sides, legs spread eagle.

      “It’s such a shame I won’t have time to capture this momentous occasion on canvas.” He smiled down at his old friend. “You know I’ve always fancied myself quite the artist.” He sighed. “Before Nicholas turned against me I had my own studio. I miss those days.”

      A wet spot appeared on the crotch of Lawrence’s trousers.

      “Really,” Randolph chastised, “I would have thought you far braver than this.”

      The man on the floor groaned pitifully.

      Randolph returned to the liquor cabinet and retrieved the final tool he’d stashed behind it.

      He approached his old friend once more. “I will miss you, Lawrence.”

      Tears poured from the other man’s eyes. The pulse at the base of his throat fluttered wildly.

      How very sad and yet intensely titillating.

      “See you in hell, old friend.” Randolph hefted the ax. The first blow shattered the elbow as the blade cut through bone and tendon, leaving the forearm detached and hemorrhaging on the floor. The second swing sent blood splattering across Randolph’s face. Muscles and ligaments splayed open at the shoulder like the freshly severed parts of a hog. The humerus easily popped out of the glenoid socket and Lawrence’s body twitched and shuddered. A feeble scream croaked out of his sagging jowls.

      Randolph sighed with pleasure as the hot blood slid down his skin. His own blood pulsing with sheer bliss, he raised the ax again.

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