Illusion of Luck Read online

  “Then I would have used this.” He picked up the box that was sitting beside his laptop and held it up.

  “What’s that? The antidote? Give it to me!”

  She stood and tried to walk toward him, but fell to the floor. “Please, Larry…”

  He opened the box, studied the contents and read the labels in no particular hurry. “Let’s see…we have two bags: one is a 3% solution of sodium nitrate…and the other is a 25% solution of sodium thiosulfate.”

  “Please, Honey, save me. I promise I won’t sue you. I’ll just walk away if that’s what you want. I won’t even take the car.” She started choking. “Just send me away on a bus.”

  “I don’t believe you.” He walked over to the kitchenette and dropped the two bags into the sink and reached into a drawer for a steak knife.

  “No!”

  He stabbed the bags repeatedly.

  She gasped for air as the antidote, and her life, gurgled down the drain.

  He walked back to his laptop, sat down, and began to type, ignoring Erin’s convulsing body just behind his chair.

  Her family had long ago disowned her when she slipped away during the night at the age of 18. She had caused her parents considerable heartache over the years. And if the little tramp thought she could make it on her own, then more power to her.

  Her Miss Bikini title was just the beginning of her fame and fortune according to the smooth-talking photographer from Dallas. She gave him all the sex he could handle before realizing she would get nothing in return.

  But then she met a writer at a party. He seemed sort of odd. But when she found out he was loaded, she decided to latch onto him and never let go.

  Now all his money was gone. And so was she.

  Larry finished the paragraph and clicked the ‘Publish’ button. They’ll love this chapter, he thought.

  Larry was more like his new character than Erin could have imagined. She just didn’t understand the true power of his luck, because she had never seen it in action. He himself had lost the faith. For ten years, he had been sitting safely on the edge of the freeway, watching the cars go by. Now it was time to jump in front of an 18-wheeler and force his God of Luck to save him.

  He couldn’t just wait around for the things he wanted. He needed to be proactive—and just go for it. Because, where is the faith if he didn’t step out blindly, believing?

  He checked for Erin’s pulse and felt nothing.

  His cabin was at the end of the road. It was a fishing cabin. But he had come there to write a mystery novel—not to fish. He had nevercome there to fish. And he had never used the barbecue pit. Until tonight.

  It would be dark soon.

  He eyed her body. Good thing she was short.

  Chapter3

  For Greg, the second run-through was much different from the first. He tried to forget about the anonymous call, but couldn’t help wondering if he really knew the beautiful woman who was reciting vows to him.

  “I, Cynthia, take you Greg to be my husband, my partner in life and my one true love. I will cherish our union…”

  As he looked into her deep blue eyes, his fears began to melt away. The sincerity of her voice was mesmerizing. Nothing could harm him. Nothing else mattered.

  Then he noticed the necklace. Why hadn’t he seen it before? It looked expensive. Hehad not given it to her, and he wondered who had. Could it have been a gift from an ex-boyfriend—some guy she had hypnotized like Greg.

  Some women like to treat a man like a piece of bubble gum. The poor sap thinks everything’s fine. And it is—until the taste runs out. Then she’ll just spit him out the car window of her life and never look back.

  So, what was the worst-case scenario? He would marry her, and then go off to Orlando and enjoy the rides and shows at Disney World. Every night they would make love. Maybe some days they would take a midday nap after some midday sex. Wow! His body ached for her. Whoa. Not a good time to get aroused though.

  The wedding would be in two days, on Saturday. They would drive to Dallas, spend their first night together in the Marriott near DFW Airport, and then catch their flight to Orlando the next morning.

  Greg decided to forget about the stupid caller.

  **********

  It was about 7:00 PM, and pitch black. As far as Larry could tell, there was no moonlight at all. The gas pole lamp provided just enough illumination for nighttime barbecuing. But now that his eyes had adjusted to it, he could barely see anything else. His only real point of reference was the light coming from the cabin windows. Without it, he could imagine himself getting lost and walking right into Lake Texoma.

  He figured the temperature to be around 50 degrees. Probably about average for late February, he thought. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, but felt plenty of warmth from the hot barbecue pit.

  “Catch any big ones?” A deep voice boomed from somewhere out in the darkness.

  Larry jumped.

  The man’s voice was approaching. “Me and my boys pulled in quite a haul today. I caught me an 8 lb. largemouth bass.”

  Larry strained to see the man, but couldn’t. For all he could tell, it could have been a ghost, floating around in the darkness.

  “Something smells good.”

  A big plaid shirt materialized at his side, and Larry jumped. Then he saw the jeans and the boots, and looked up to see the face. The guy was huge.

  “Hi. My name is Jim.” He grabbed Larry’s hand and gave it a bone-crushing shake. “Me and Barb brought my three boys up for a long weekend of fishing. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking: shouldn’t them boys be in school? Nope. Cause I sent a note to their principal explaining how this is a part of the boys’ education. Know what I mean, Guy?”

  “Yeah…sure.”

  “Well, the principal didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit, and he got all huffy with me. But I told him I didn’t give a durn what he thought. Sure, they gotta learn their three R’s: reading, writing and ‘rithmetic. Everybody knows that. But you gotta have some balance in life. Know what I mean? Gotta have your three F’s, too. You know what the three F’s are?”

  Larry could only imagine. “No, I don’t.”

  “Fun, fishin’ and fryin.’” He laughed. “Yeah, I made that up. Pretty good, ain’t it? The fun and the fishing go without saying. But you gotta have the frying, ‘cause that’s what we do, Guy. It’s a family tradition. We don’t broil ‘em like youdo.” He glanced at the barbecue pit. “But there nothing wrong with broiling, I guess—if that’s what you like.”

  Larry had nodded along with everything, hoping the big redneck would soon run out of things to say and leave him alone.

  “But that ain’t fish, is it, Guy? I’m sorry—I don’t believe I got your name. That’s just rude of me to keep calling you ‘Guy’.”

  “Larry. And no, it’s not fish. It’s…uh…”

  “That’s okay. No need to be embarrassed. You must be one of them fellas that likes to fish, but doesn’t like to eat ‘em. You’d rather have a big juicy steak, right?”

  “Uh…yeah, that’s right.”

  “Probably one of them expensive cuts. Mind if I have a look-see?”

  “Uh, no. I mean, yes, I domind. The uh, particular way I cook my steak…you have to keep the lid closed until right when it’s done. Yeah, because if you don’t, it’ll get tough.”

  “I see. Never heard of that. But you might oughta take a look at that thing soon, Larry. Smells like it’s starting to burn.”

  “Yeah. Well, I was just about to check it. Thanks for dropping by. See you around, Jim.”

  “Yep. We’ll probably see you out on the lake tomorrow.” Jim started walking away, then stopped and looked back and said, “But if you catch some you don’t want, no need to throw ‘em back. I’ll take ‘em.” He chuckled.

  “Okay, Jim. Thanks.”

  Jim started whistling as he walked back toward his cabin. Larry recognized it as the theme to the Andy Griffith Show. He wondered how Jim could see hi
s way back to his cabin. He half expected to hear him yell when he tripped over some stump or armadillo.

  Larry watched in satisfaction as the smoke drifted upward, beyond the soft glow of the lamp, into the night. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, he thought. This was one steak that would never cheat on him again.

  He had never felt so alive. Putting that sleazy tramp in her place and taking control of his life had cranked up the engine of his dark soul. And now, thanks to the close call with Jim, he was drenched in sweaty fear, pedal to the metal, fuel-injectors kicking in hard. What a rush!

  **********

  Greg, Cynthia and Beverly had decided to catch a ride with Sandy from the church to the rehearsal dinner at Coreyville Pasta House.

  As Greg was getting into the front seat with Sandy, he said, “By the way, Baby, that’s a beautiful necklace you’re wearing tonight. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before.”

  “Thanks, Honey. Mom gave me this necklace.”

  “I did?” said Beverly.

  “Yeah. Remember, it was Aunt Judy’s.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. You gave it to me three or four years ago.”

  “Oh. That’s right. Now I remember.”

  Greg wondered if Cynthia had winked at her mom to get her to go along with the story.

  “I could eat a cow,” said Sandy.

  “Would you settle for spaghetti?” said Beverly.

  “Sure, that’ll work. As long as they have plenty of that good bread.”

  Cynthia was sitting behind Sandy. “So, Greg told you all about the bread, huh? I’m not surprised. The man loves a great loaf of bread.” She put her hand on Greg’s left shoulder. “That reminds me, Sweetie. You told them you’d call when we were on our way.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” Greg took out his phone, flipped it open and noticed that he had missed a call. He keyed in the number for the restaurant. “Hi. This is Greg Tenorly and I have reservations…that’s right—the wedding party…we’ll be there in five minutes…okay. Thanks.”

  Just before Greg closed his phone, he saw that he had a message, so he hit the voicemail button.

  You’re not gonna take my advice, are you? You’re gonna marry her anyway. But you’ll be sorry, Man. So sorry.

  “Who was the message from?” said Cynthia.

  “Nobody. I mean, it was a wrong number.”

  “I hate that,” said Sandy. “A couple of weeks ago I had this message from some guy saying his flight had not been delayed after all, and could I please be at the airport by midnight.”

  “So, you had to call him back and tell he had the wrong number?” said Beverly.

  “I couldn’t—it was an anonymous call.”

  “Serves him right for blocking his number,” said Cynthia.

  “Yeah,” said Greg. “I want to knowwho’s calling me.”

  “When they do that, I just want to ignore the call,” said Sandy.

  I wish I had, thought Greg.

  “But then sometimes it’s important,” said Sandy. “So, what can you do? You really can’t take the chance.”

  “Just let it go to voicemail every time,” said Cynthia. “That’s what Ido.”

  “But then you still end up listening to what they have to say,” said Greg. “You’re not likely to just delete the message without listeningto the doggone thing.”

  “Are you okay, Sweetie?” said Cynthia. “You seem kind of upset.”

  Greg changed his tone. “No, uh, I just hope they have the tables set up right.”

  “You worry too much, Man,” said Sandy. “Chill.”

  Greg wished he could chill. He wished he could enjoy what should have been one of the best nights of his life.

  He wished he could rewind the evening and start over.

  Withouthis cell phone.

  Chapter4

  Larry sat down at his laptop and logged in as Barry Undermine to complete another chapter of his serial novel, Illusion of Luck. He jittered with excitement at the realization of what he had just done. His clothing reeked of smoke from Erin’s incineration. Hopefully by morning her remains would fit in an urn. But she didn’t deserve one. So instead, he would dump her ashes into the rusty 55-gallon garbage drum on the other side of the dirt road.

  His brain articulated the scene at hyper-speed, overloading his sixty-words-per-minute hands. It was so easy—just like the murder.

  Wait. Not thateasy, he thought. It wasn’t as though he was simply taking dictation. No, not at all. He was a craftsman, an artist. He had six novels worth of experience under his belt. This time his writing was much better—but only because he had a better story idea. It was still fiction.

  He was taking a different approach to his writing—making it up as he went along instead of preparing a detailed story outline and following it to the letter. For this book, lucky number seven, he only had a rough sketch of the plot.

  His original plot had called for his main character to confront his girlfriend about her affairs, and get into a nasty court battle over money. Then he would murder her and somehow get away with it and live happily ever after in Tahiti. Until the girlfriend’s father, an ex-Navy Seal, tracked him down and killed him in the final scene.

  But now the original plot would never make it into the book. Real life had given him better ideas.

  He typed the last word of the chapter and clicked ‘Publish.’ Let’s see how they like this one, he thought. Some of his readers had already signed up for instant email notification. So, it wouldn’t be long before they’d be reading about the girlfriend’s terrible demise.

  He minimized the web page and went back to the Marshall News Messenger site. He stared at the picture, ignoring the man standing next to her. The beautiful redhead had been the unknowing object of his nightly pleasures throughout his junior and senior high school years.

  He’d been much too shy to approach her—even after being crowned the big football hero of the game against their archrival, Longview. His incredible last-second catch in the end zone had won the game. And his Marshall Mavericks had gone on to be Bi-District Champions that year.

  But Larry was no longer shy. He was a man of considerable wisdom, charm, and wealth. Actually, not so much wealth currently. He had $35,000 in an account his girlfriend was never aware of. She had spent all the rest.

  But he was not overly concerned about his dwindling fortune. The inheritance and his lottery winnings had kept him afloat so far. Maybe he would start playing the lottery again, he thought. Larry had been kind enough to refrain from buying tickets so other people could win. But he didn’t care about being rich anyway. A million or two was all he needed.

  Erin was gone, but the $65,000 convertible was not. And it could notbe sitting in front of his cabin the next morning for Jim to gawk at.

  Cool car. Belong to the Mrs.? When can we meet her? Why don’t y’all come join us for dinner tonight?

  Larry clicked back over to see if any readers had commented on his latest chapter posting. Yes—there were already three comments praising his work. The one from the guy in Sidney, Australia was his favorite.

  Your characters practically leap off the page. I’m an avid mystery reader, but have never before read anything sounding so real, so genuine. The killer is creepy, brutal and sick. I love it! Hurry up and post the next chapter—please!

  He read it aloud, over and over. Yes! Soon agents would be beggingto represent him.

  **********

  Sandy slid his chair back and stood up. “Could I have your attention, everyone?” After polishing off several baskets of bread and a couple of huge plates of spaghetti, Sandy was ready to make his speech.

  Greg and Cynthia were sitting directly across from him.

  Beverly, the pastor and his wife, the organist, the flower girl and her mother stopped talking and looked at Sandy.

  “In my capacity as Best Man, I feel I need to say a few words about the groom.”

  Uh-oh, thought Greg.

  Cynthia was
interested in learning more about her future husband. And she knew Sandy probably had some funny stories from their college days.

  “As most of you know, Greg and I were roommates in college. We were both music majors. And I remember the day we met as freshman. I was thrilled to meet him because I thinking, ‘this guy is even nerdier than me.’”

  Everyone laughed.

  “Gee, thanks, Sandy,” said Greg, grinning.

  “And one of the most memorable conversations we had that first year was about sex.”

  The mother of the flower girl suddenly jumped up and took her young daughter to the restroom.

  “But I don’t need to go, Mommy.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  Sandy went on. “So, Greg was telling me about when he was 13 and started having feelings for girls…”

  Cynthia smiled at Greg—imagining how cute he must have looked as a 13 year-old.

  Greg blushed. Not because of what Sandy had just said, but because of what might be coming.

  “He had very special feelings for one particular classmate named Cindy. And back then he didn’t know squatabout sex. But he spent a lot of time thinkingabout her—especially at night. He’d think about touching her and holding her and kissing her and then—he’d sneeze. He explained how the excitement would build, poco a poco, to a grand fortissimo. Oops, sorry. There I go—talking in music notation. Let me translate. In English it means—well, in English it means he had a big ole—”

  “—Sandy!” Greg couldn’t even bring himself to look down at the end of the table where Dr. Huff was sitting.

  “And when Greg told me that, it made me think. A really good sneeze isa lot like…” he saw the look on Greg’s face, “…you know. It starts off with a little tickle in your nose. Then it gets stronger and stronger, and everything inside your head starts to buzz and finally, when you can’t stand it any longer—Bam! And then you go ‘Aah.’”