EXCERPTS

EXCERPT from "INCOMPLETE DELUSION"

The rest of the day went off without a hitch. Neither of them spoke of the earlier debacle as they picked up the comfortable banter they had enjoyed earlier. The drive home was pleasant and when Sam invited himself over for dinner, offering to do the cooking, Sarah heartily agreed.

At eleven that evening, Sam yawned a couple times then said it was time to head out. "Of course, I’d be happy to stay over - on the couch - if it would make you feel better about all the strange things you’ve gone through lately."

"No need, really. But I appreciate the offer. I’ll just have to hope this creep has had his jollies and has called it quits. Are you going to be okay to drive? Not too tired?"

Sam assured her he was fine, gave her a brief kiss then headed out. She was torn as she watched him drive away. On the one hand, she needed to prove to herself she was strong and did not need a man around to protect her, yet on the other hand, she was sad to see him go. This man was going to be a hard one to resist. There was no denying her feelings for him.

Door locked and double-checked, Sarah headed off to bed.

Two hours later, the phone rang. It woke her from a deep sleep, and Sarah was confused when she answered. It took her a second to orient herself to time and place. The caller was whispering, obviously trying to disguise his voice, and Sarah had to make him repeat himself more than once. The caller insisted on calling her Jolene, and no matter how often she told him he was mistaken, that her name was not Jolene and that no such person resided at the number he had dialed, he seemed not to hear her. Following numerous unsuccessful attempts at making him understand that he had misdialed, she gave up and hung up on him.  

The phone rang again an hour later. And an hour after that. Feeling frustrated and a bit fearful by the third call, Sarah resorted to removing the phone jack from the wall. But even without the incessant ringing, sleep eluded her.

EXCERPT from "YOU'RE STILL MINE" (Book 1, 'Safe In His Arms' series)

This couldn't be happening! She'd been assured by the Courts that he would serve a minimum five years, yet here he was walking the streets - or soon would be - following a paltry three and a half years in federal prison!

On the very day he was found guilty by a jury of his peers, Meg had registered with SAVIN, the Statewide Automated Victim Information and Notification program, hence the automated message which had greeted her this morning informing her that her ex-
husband, the man who'd nearly taken her life, the man who'd instilled in her a fear of men in general, was to be released this coming Monday. 

In her estimation, she had three days to come up with a solid plan to get herself away from this town, away from him if she had any hope of saving herself. Meg wasn't one prone to exaggeration in general, and definitely not when it came to her fear of Rob. She knew with absolute certainty that immediately upon his release, Rob would be on her like a dog with a bone. Only this time, he'd be sure to finish the job. Unable to come up with a quick solution, Meg needed to think, and think fast! She decided to come at this systematically.

First things first. Money. She had $2,500 in savings and another $1,100 in her chequing account. Of course, if she left town immediately, it would mean skipping this month's mortgage payment, but what did it matter? Rob would likely claim the house as his anyway. Laws and injunctions were of no consequence to an animal like him. He was a law unto himself and defied anyone to say differently.

Meg had married Rob when she was twenty-five. He was a couple years older than her and had impressed Meg with his worldly maturity. He'd often boasted of his travels and street-wise education, and Meg had taken in every word. What he'd failed to tell her, however, was that none of it was true. In fact, he'd never stepped foot outside the State of New York in his entire life. Unfortunately, unbeknownst to her, his secrets would not come to light for a very long time. If only they had.

They'd honeymooned in Niagara Falls - the Canadian side - as they'd both wanted to see the Horseshoe Falls. It hadn't been a long trip, considering they lived in Rochester, New York, but it was nonetheless exciting for a woman as sheltered as Meg had been.

What a great time they'd had. Rob seemed to be trying to make all her honeymoon dreams come true. He'd wined and dined her, albeit at moderately-priced restaurants, bought her a delicate necklace with a heart-shaped pendant, and even waltzed her down Clifton Hill, attracting stares and smiles from onlookers. They'd had so much fun and had laughed so hard, they'd had to stop to rest in order catch their breath.  

But as the saying goes, all good things come to an end. Meg's dream honeymoon had ended with a bang practically the moment they'd stepped foot in their rented one-bedroom apartment upon their return from Niagara Falls. 

Rob had appeared to undergo a personality transformation before her very eyes. Within the first week, he'd shed his good-guy persona and had felt the need to outline for Meg certain ground rules she would be required to adhere to. First off - and according to him, most important - was his need to establish that he was the head of the household. His kingdom would not be a democracy and she needed to accept this as fact, without question or debate.

He wasn't a total ogre, however. He informed her that he'd allow Meg to decide on what meals she would serve him, the one caveat being that she must only serve foods his mama

had fed him when he was growing up. It was also imperative that dinner be on the table, ready to eat, no later than six o'clock on weekdays and six-thirty on weekends. His breakfast would be scrambled eggs or porridge on cold days, and toast or cereal on warmer days. 
 

Although Meg worked full-time - and made good money - as an administrative assistant for a local insurance company, she was not entitled to a penny of her salary unless it was disbursed by Rob. Her salary was deposited directly into a joint bank account, yet Meg was expressly forbidden from withdrawing a penny of it. Rob reasoned they'd be in a better position to purchase a home sooner if they went without for a few years. What he'd failed to specify was that she would go without, and he would not.

Makeup was not up for discussion. Rob's mama had never worn it and no wife of his would be allowed out in public looking like a cheap tramp.  Meg was not allowed to grow her hair too long or she would look like a Jezebel. Her clothes had to be modestly styled, selected by him, with only skirts below the knee and blouses with round necklines permissible.

As to Meg's friends, they had eventually become a thing of the past. Oh, Rob had allowed her to go out occasionally at first, but whenever she did go out with friends, he became so obsessed with where she'd gone and who she'd been with, Meg soon decided it wasn't worth the headaches that came with it. Of course, friendship is a two-way street and neglected friends will eventually move on and leave you behind. Sure enough, within a short period of time, Meg found herself very much alone, if not by herself. Her husband had become a stranger practically overnight and her friends had given up on her.

The abuse kind of crept up on her. She'd not seen it coming. It had been so subtle at first, she had at times thought him 'cute' for being so detail-oriented, so concerned for her well being.  

But then his behaviour had turned into something much more frightening, his need for total control all-consuming. The house had to be just so, at all times, and if company came over - of course, 'company' being his parents and sister - the menu was pre-approved by him and the food carefully inspected prior to serving. More than once, he'd thrown out a perfectly good pie because the meringue didn't look as 'fluffy' as his mama's.

Her tears were of no consequence. In his opinion, they were a sign of weakness and manipulation on her part. Meg tried never to let him see her tears as, more often than not, it would enrage him and he'd rant at her for hours on end.

The first time he struck her, she was in complete and utter shock. Such a thing was unheard of when she was growing up. Her father had been a gentle man who'd never raised his voice to her mother, let alone his hand. Her father had always said women were put on this earth to be loved and cherished, and that a good man would never raise his hand in anger to a woman.

Her shock must have been apparent because Rob froze, as though he, himself, were appalled at his own behaviour. He'd come to her then and apologized profusely, claiming he didn't know what had come over him and suggested that perhaps she'd made him angrier than she usually did. He suggested that if she worked harder at not angering him in the future, he promised never to hit her again. That had been Rob's idea of a win-win situation.

Oh, Meg had tried to be good. Meals were always on time and ready to be served the minute he got home, his clothes were washed and pressed twice weekly, and not a speck of dirt could be found anywhere. But of course even angels can mess up once in a while, and Meg was no exception. On two occasions, she'd missed her bus and arrived home a half-hour late. Dinner wasn't ready when he got home, and there had been hell to pay. She was not trying hard enough, he'd said. Or she was intentionally trying to provoke him.

No matter how you sliced it, Meg was the one who'd messed up, missed bus, be damned.

The abuse intensified, the slaps were dolled out more frequently, and the pain and humiliation became unbearable. At one point, not knowing where to turn, feeling totally and utterly alone, Meg had called Rob's sister for advice and, if she were lucky, a measure of support. His sister's allegiance to her brother had been to Meg's detriment. She'd promptly informed Rob of his wife's lack of discretion, and Rob had felt it necessary to inform Meg of her lack of good judgement. In the end, when everyone had been duly informed, the only one sporting bruises was Meg. The icing on the cake was the broken arm her husband had thrown in for good measure. 

Meg was not one to air her dirty laundry, but there came a time when she'd felt the need to notify police officials of the abuse she was suffering at the hands of her husband. They were sympathetic to her plight and, taking one good look at Meg, had not hesitated to arrest Rob on domestic abuse charges. A slap on the wrist by a judge, two days to cool his heels in the County Jail, and he was back home. Payback was indeed a bitch, and Meg had felt every single bit of that payback.

The last time Rob beat her had been his downfall. One morning, sick with a nasty flu bug, Meg had mistakenly believed she could remain in bed, convinced Rob could take care of his own needs for one day. Surely he'd understand. After all, he knew she'd thrown up several times during the night, and also had a fever. She'd been gravely mistaken. Rob had been enraged. He'd dragged her out of bed by her hair, forced her to make his breakfast, and when she'd run to the bathroom to be sick, he'd beat her for leaving in the middle of such an important task.

This time, his rage had known no bounds. Open-handed slaps had evolved into closed-fist punches, and wrenching her arms so hard, he had dislocated both her shoulders. To show how magnanimous he was, though, Rob had eventually agreed to allow Meg to call for an

ambulance, instructing her word-for-word on what she was to tell the EMTs when they arrived. Fortunately for Meg, because of Rob's prior history, they'd not come alone, a detail Rob had mistakenly overlooked. 

Police had hauled him off to jail and a judge had sentenced him to five years in a state-run prison. He was not to have any contact with his wife - who quickly became his ex-wife.

Today, Meg had received an automated message informing her that her ex-husband would be released in exactly three days. There was so much to do before then, because Meg was determined he would never come near her again. She'd kill him before she allowed that to happen.

As Meg drove due south, she thought back to all that she had accomplished in the past three days. Her first move had been to empty her bank accounts. Her savings were not significant, but in the three and a half years of Rob's incarceration, she'd managed to amass a nice little nest egg. And it was all hers. She had more than enough money to do what she needed to ensure Rob never found her. There was no doubt in her mind he would try, for he had a score to settle, and he was a very determined, extremely angry man who, in his sick, twisted mind, believed he'd been wronged.

EXCERPT from "YOU'RE NOT  HIS" (Book 2, 'Safe In His Arms' series)

Having enjoyed her breakfast of poached eggs on whole wheat toast, she paid her bill, then headed down Main Street with no actual destination in mind, simply popping in and out of the various shops along the town's main street. The town was definitely growing on her, she thought. Just as she thought nothing could make her day more perfect, her happiness plummeted when she spied Vic making his way toward her.

"Annie! Hi, there!" he said, smiling from ear-to-ear.

"Vic? What are you doing here? I thought you said you had work lined up for today?"

"I did and I'm done. It's such a great day, I thought I'd drive to town and get some shopping done. I see you're doing the same thing. Looking for anything in particular?"

"No, not really." Annie was disappointed. Until now, she'd been enjoying herself and would have liked to have a bit more alone-time before heading home.

"Well, count yourself lucky, my friend. I'm here to keep you company! I think we should start with..."

"Vic, no, wait. I don't mean to be rude, but I'd really like to do this on my own. You know, just me, myself and I?  Maybe we can do this together another time, you know?" 

"And here I thought you liked my company!" he said with a smile. "Besides, a woman is always safer with a man by her side, don't you think? Come on, Annie, let's have a little fun!"

Was he for real?! "Thanks, but no thanks, Vic." she said, a little more firmly, but smiling nonetheless. "I'm a big city girl, remember? I'm quite used to getting around on my own without some big, hulking man around to protect me. So I'm going to go ahead now, by myself. It was nice to see you, though. Maybe we can get together sometime this week. Bye, now."

As she prepared to step off the curb to cross the street, he grabbed her arm and swung her around to face him. She tried to shake him off, but his grip was like a steel vice.

Under her breath, not wanting to cause a scene, Annie said, "Vic! What the hell? Let go my arm, immediately!"

Scowling fiercely, he looked down at her and said, under his breath, "I'll let go your arm when you calm down and listen to me. I'm a good person, Annie, and I've been bending over backward to be nice to you. And you kick me in the teeth? You know how much you mean to me, yet you act like a damn ice queen. I've been nothing but a gentleman with you, but a man can only take so much! Now, I want you to start behaving like the lady I know you are, and let's spend some quality time together."

Annie's chin dropped. Either this guy was a throwback from the fifties, or he'd plum lost his mind!

"Vic," she said, clearly enunciating every word, "I don't want to cause a scene, but if you don't remove your hand from my arm this instant, I'll scream so loud you'll be deaf for a week," she ground out. She tried to disengage her arm once more, without success.

His grip tightened even more, if that were possible. "Stop acting like such a bitch, Annie! I mean it. Or I'll fucking smack you, right here, in front of everyone!" His eyes were as dark as coal, his normally handsome features distorted by rage.

A deep voice spoke up somewhere behind and to Annie's right. "Vic, the lady asked you to let go her arm. I suggest you do so immediately."

EXCERPT from "LOOK BEHIND YOU" (Book 3, 'Safe In His Arms' series)

No doubt about it, killing is a dirty business, he mused, as he cleaned up after his latest victim. A meaningful kill, in his opinion, had to result in a bloody mess. The bloodier, the better. Otherwise, it meant he had let himself down, had rushed things. And he never rushed a kill. Ever.

The kill itself was always chillingly exciting. It was the aftermath which he viewed as grueling and tedious. After all, disposing of a garbage bag was one thing; disposing of a one-hundred-plus-pound body was quite another. One did not simply stroll over to the nearest dumpster and sling the body over the top.

And therein lay the problem. He was getting older and this was getting harder. It pissed him off to think he was no longer as strong as he used to be when he had first taken up his unusual 'hobby.'

Used to be he could pick off two of them in one day without batting an eye. Now, here he was in his early forties, feeling like an old man. 

The women fought, begged, most shit themselves. This had taught him there was no pride in dying. He was certain, had he been in such a situation, he would never debase himself in such a disgusting manner. He would beg for death rather than crap himself.

Ideally, he would have a crematorium on his property. This would make body disposal so much easier. Into the incinerator, push a button and presto, outta here! As it was, once he had killed them, he had no choice but to bundle them up, carry them to his car, drive until he found satisfactory dumping grounds, hoist them out of the car and plunk them down in the dirt. A bitch of a job, and the only part he hated.

Of course, having pride in his trade, he never just left them to be found as is. It was of the utmost importance that he pose them in a manner which showed who they truly were. Women - or girls in most cases - were whores, plain and simple. As such, it was important they be displayed in a manner befitting who they were and what they represented.

The newspapers always failed to mention that tiny detail, how beautifully they were posed - with artistic flair - because they never found out about it. He knew why the cops were leaving out these details, of course. They always withheld the juiciest bits from any crime scene. Things only the killer would know, blah, blah, blah. It was 'Criminology 101.'

No matter. What he did or did not do to his pretties was not for their benefit; it was for his. As long as he was happy, it was all that mattered.

He had made a career out of torturing and killing young things. They were the tastiest morsels. He liked those with tiny waists and big tits the most. More fun to be had. Not that he cared about big breasts; he did not. To him, large breasts simply meant larger parts to play with.

But God, they had big mouths. Once they came to, it never failed, they screamed their fool heads off until he had no choice but to gag them. Usually with their own underwear. Unfortunately, some got so scared, they pissed or shit themselves, in which case he would be forced to find an alternate way to shut them up, like sewing up their lips. He enjoyed sewing and was quite good at it, but despite his sewing knowledge, he rarely used this particular skill for that purpose. Too many other fun things to do!

If asked, he would concede to being an old pro at this killing business. If colleges ever added serial killing to the curriculum, he laughed to himself, he could teach it. Bet he could get tenure in no time, he thought, giving the table one last swipe with a moderately clean cloth.

He didn't remember any other way, actually. He'd made his first kill at eighteen. Stupid virgin had been batting her eyes and shaking her ass at him for weeks. Thought she was all that, he supposed.

He had worked at Jimmy's Garage that summer. Old Jimmy had hired him on as a gas jockey, but he had been doing such a great job, he had soon graduated to occasionally subbing as a grease monkey. Oh, what a thrill, he thought, and rolled his eyes. Poor Jimmy believed he was bestowing the greatest honour on his newest employee.

The job was okay, he supposed. It paid a shit salary but it gave him a few bucks to buy the things he needed to set up his secret hideaway. Well, hideaway was overstating it a bit, he conceded. It was more of an old shed he had found in the woods behind his house, about three hundred yards in. The thing was falling apart. Literally. It was hanging by the proverbial thread.

Standing and stretching his stiff back, he grabbed the soiled rag he kept on the shelf below the

window. As he once again wiped down his work bench, he thought back to the battle he had fought with his latest victim. She could not have weighed more than a hundred pounds soaking wet, but damn if she didn't fight him every inch of the way.

She had pissed him off to where he had cracked her skull on the table just to stop her from moving. He had been furious with himself for losing control. Because of his nasty temper, he had screwed himself out of some prime fun by killing her prematurely.

No matter, he thought. To him, she represented nothing more significant than a few moments of total exhilaration. Pure bliss. That moment when he placed his hand over their heart to feel their life force slowly ebbing from their body. Never failed to make him hard. To thrash around to the point where he lost his temper and was forced to kill them prematurely was beyond maddening.

The problem was The Rules. He had worked long and hard determining the rules he would expect his girls to abide by, and he felt it important that he explain these rules to them before the fun could begin. To do that, he needed absolute quiet. Few understood this. Was it too much for him to insist on a mere two minutes of their undivided attention? He thought not. Young people just did not know the meaning of respect these days.  Growing up, he learned the meaning of respect. If he forgot himself, even once, he was reminded. The reminder, usually administered by his father, was swift and harsh, guaranteed to improve his memory.

He had not exactly been a typical youngster, hiding in his bedroom, peeking at girly magazines while he jerked off under the covers. That was not for him. He got his rocks off staring at pictures of small animals and fantasizing about new ways of torturing, killing and dismembering their tiny bodies. His favourite technique remained cutting them open while they were still alive and staring them in the eye, knowing they were about to breathe their last. It was a powerful feeling unsurpassed by any other.

Had his mom ever caught him, he would not have feared her reaction. Her sweet boy was studying - a science project, one might say.

In his teens, he'd found the fun to be diminishing, the thrill of the kill had fizzled out. His only choice had been to kick it up a notch. Although he had occasionally abducted and tortured young girls, it had taken a few years before he found the courage to actually take a girl's life.

His first kill had been his most memorable. That was when he'd come to understand the drug

addict's need to 'chase the dragon.' No matter how many kills he had under his belt, none ever equaled or surpassed his first. He suspected none ever would.

That first time, he had cried afterwards. Not out of sadness or shame for his actions. His tears were borne of pure joy. He had finally discovered his purpose in life, the reason he had been put on this earth. His mission was clear and he would fulfill it to the best of his ability.

Unfortunately, he had been forced to slow down somewhat in the last year or so. His reflexes were not what they had been in his twenties. The risk of getting caught was greater. And being discovered was not an option, not after the years of grueling work he had invested. He would die before he let anyone take from him the one pleasure he had in life.

Hence the reason why he decided to take a sabbatical of sorts. He needed to take a well-deserved rest. On second thought, he could always make this a working holiday.

Although he had done a fair amount of hunting while growing up back in Oregon, he had not gone fishing in years. So it was time to have a bit of good, clean fun.

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