Kindle Edition
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Amazon
Category:
Mystery/Suspense
Publisher: Granbeck Interactive
Type: Fiction
Pages: 230
Copyright: October 4, 2014
ISBN-13: 9780990909101
Price: $4.99 (eBook)
A riveting exercise of sheer terror, "By Reason Of" spins a mesmerizing tale of a recently widowed young woman plunged into a seemingly endless nightmare of madness and murder.
A torrential Los Angeles downpour is grinding the city to a near-halt, and in their remote canyon home, aspiring actress Eve Foxx is nursing her sick three-year-old daughter, Cindy, when a deranged killer breaks into the house. Though Lucas Miller, just released from a mental institution, has killed twice before, his periods of violence are punctuated by moments of tenderness and concern for mother and daughter. But while Eve plots to save herself and Cindy from Lucas' murderous rages, the unceasing rain starts a mudslide that threatens all their lives, and Eve faces the fact that her safety, and that of her child's, are in the hands of this unbalanced man. From the beginning, this story grips the reader with its masterful narration, and the tension carries through the last, suspenseful pages.
Excerpt
CHAPTER ONE
He flexed his hands to ease the cramped muscles. The nicotine stains on the first two fingers of his right hand were muddy yellow over grime permanently imbedded in the pores and around his chipped nails. His knuckles, scarred from countless times wrenches had slipped and hot manifolds had burned them, were etched with indelible black lines. One knuckle was swollen and raw, and there was a deep, fresh gouge along the back of his hand where blood had dried to a crusty scab. Above it was a dark stain on the cuff of his yellow sportshirt.
He felt it and found it was stiff and hard. Blood--too much to be from the scratch on his hand. He stared at it curiously, then pressed his palm to his temple when he couldn't remember how he'd gotten it.
He fought the knife-edge of panic that always hovered just beyond reason. Relax.
It didn't matter. It was a temporary lapse. It happened sometimes, and he knew it would pass, but with it would come the empty feeling, like a balloon with the air let out.
How long had he been sitting here? He looked at the dashboard clock.
Two-thirty. Afternoon. It was still raining, but it wasn't dark enough for night. The car smelled like a garage locker room. No, it was him. How long had he been wearing these clothes? He reached for a cigarette, but his shirt pocket was empty. He patted the pockets of his windbreaker, then checked the seat around him and the floor. When he didn't find a pack, he opened the glove compartment and pawed through the contents without any luck. Finally, he dug in the ashtray and found a butt long enough to light. He pinched it between the tips of his fingers as he sucked smoke greedily. He got two drags on it before it scorched his callused skin and he had to drop it back in the ashtray.
He sat back, then slouched automatically when his hair brushed the headliner.
Had he been the kind of man who wore hats, there'd be no room for one. He studied the rain-shrouded, gray world outside. He saw wavery outlines of other cars and realized he was in a parking lot. A vague memory broke through his clouded thoughts. Janine...the rain...cold... He shivered. He had to get warm.
Mexico. He was on his way to Mexico.
His key was in the ignition. He turned it and listened to the steady throb of the Camaro's engine. He was good with mechanical things. He enjoyed making them work smoothly and effortlessly. When he was a child, other kids brought him their broken toys, scooters with scraping wheels, and balky bicycles.
Later it was cars. He knew what was wrong with an engine by listening to it, and he could tune one as finely as a musician did a violin. It was a talent, people said. Maybe it was, but he liked things to run well. He didn't like discord.
He turned on the headlights and windshield wipers, scowling when wet, oily lines appeared on the glass. The blade needed replacing. It should have been done
before the rainy season started. Regular maintenance was important.
Suppressing his annoyance, he turned the defroster fan on high and opened the window beside him a half inch to keep the windows from fogging. Then he shifted into reverse and backed slowly out of the parking lot, watching both directions for other cars.
It was a supermarket parking lot. He saw the haze of lights behind the big plate glass windows and the red and white sign, Ralph's as he followed the yellow exit arrows on the puddle-pocked asphalt. At the street, he turned right and blended into the flow of traffic, knowing instinctively where he was and the direction to head.
He drove slowly, staying in the left lane to avoid puddles that were hubcap deep at some corners. The Valley was a swamp. He hated the Valley. He never should have come back. It was a mistake, he realized that now. He especially hated the San Fernando Valley when the winter rainy season hit. Freeway access ramps flooded so only high-cabbed trucks could get through, and water ran in the streets like rivers. And everything was made worse by crazy drivers rushing
around like they did on sunny days, doing thirty through the water without even thinking about what would happen if the distributor got wet.
The faulty wiper blade irritated him, but he couldn't stop for a new one now.
Besides, in this kind of a storm, filling station jocks would try to unload their old stock. Blades that had been sitting on the shelf all summer would probably be as cracked and dried out as this one. Maybe he'd outrun the rain before he got to San Diego.
Traffic was backed up half a block at the freeway access. When he got closer, he saw that a Volkswagen had stalled when the driver was making a left turn onto the ramp. A Chevy trying to get past was stuck in two feet of water the storm drains couldn't carry off fast enough. Stupid bastards, served them right.
He pulled the Camaro out into the turn lane and passed the snarl, sending up a wake of water when he had to twist the wheel sharply to avoid a blue pickup
truck that tried to squeeze out in front of him. The Camaro slewed, and he cursed its light weight. He'd never buy anything this light for himself. He liked solid, heavy cars he could depend on. He realized he was clenching the wheel so hard, the sore on his knuckle had broken open and was oozing blood. He
wiped it across his green work pants and snapped on the radio, changing stations until he found a traffic report.
The San Diego Freeway was blocked by an accident at Valley Vista. Only one lane of the eastbound Ventura was open between Laurel and Tujunga because of
flooding. He'd have to take one of the canyons. Laurel would be fastest, but it would be jammed. The hell with it. He'd take Coldwater. It was full of curves and switchbacks, but that didn't worry him. All he wanted was to be in San Diego before dark so he'd get to Mexico in plenty of time to have a couple of drinks before he found a place to sleep.
It took him twenty minutes to get to the foot of the Canyon. When he finally turned off Ventura Boulevard, it was a relief to start up the serpentine road.
He kept the Camaro under twenty miles an hour and hunched over the wheel so he could see through the windshield. Even with the headlights, the rain obscured everything but a few feet of wet pavement and the shimmering outlines of the trees that lost themselves in the fog-shrouded hills. He'd driven this way plenty of times, but not for awhile. He recognized the fancy private school and the church. Beyond them, the climb became steep. He shifted into second gear.
It was a peculiar area. There were big houses set back behind walls and fences or secluded by foliage. There were smaller ones too, rustic and woodsy, perched at the top of steep driveways, invisible so you couldn't see them until you got right up to them.
The higher he went, the slower he had to drive. Swirling water poured along the road, spouting from newly carved gullies in the hillside and stained with mud.
A rushing stream along the inside shoulder overflowed onto the blacktop in laces so it was hard to see the faded yellow line marking the center of the road. He
didn't recognize landmarks anymore. It was a wet, gray alien world.
From time to time, mailboxes sprouted in the path of the headlights like water birds perched on slender legs guarding the private drives to invisible aeries.
It couldn't be much farther to the summit. Maybe the freeway would have been faster. Coldwater would dump him out in Beverly Hills, and he'd still have to drive across half the damned city to pick up a freeway going south. Cursing, he tapped the brakes and came to a stop as a burst of storm smothered the car in fog and rain. He couldn't see the damned road. The rain was pounding the car so hard, the windshield wipers couldn't keep up with the shimmering gray sheet.
After a few minutes, as suddenly as it hit, the cloudburst eased to a steady downpour once more. He rubbed a spot clear of moisture on the window beside him and watched the river of muddy water splash and separate as it hit the front wheels. He put the car in gear again and crept on. The car slewed, veering to the shoulder before the tires gained purchase on the slick pavement. He concentrated, holding the wheel lightly so he could feel the car's response. It was sluggish. The carburetor needed cleaning.
He got about a hundred feet before the rain slashed viciously again. He stopped and waited for it to let up. It went that way for ten minutes. Move, wait.
Move, wait. Was he near Mullholland? It couldn't be far.
He cocked his head, scowling as the engine missed. He shifted to neutral and pressed the gas pedal lightly. The engine missed again and sputtered. His gaze swept the dashboard gauges. The fuel needle was on empty. He swore and steered to the shoulder, getting the car as far off the pavement as possible before the engine died. In this goddamn downpour, there was nothing to do but wait.
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