Play Time
Junior and Lucky’s carefully laid plans about visiting Missouri in the dead of winter seemed blessed from day one. Everything fell into place as if ordained by Harry Potter’s magic wand. It was as though their new mission had been charmed from the beginning and all would be well with all their intended spilling of familial blood. They traveled across the country in Junior’s hot red Mercedes with plenty of cold cash in hand, mainly because they enjoyed road trips together, but also because they didn’t want to leave a paper trail with plane tickets and credit cards and nary a way to transport their favored murder weapons created out of their improved but warped version of Detection. They had already become joint owners of a lovely lake property, the house key already mailed to them and tucked safely inside Junior’s jeans pocket.
The property they had chosen had been purchased over the Internet, with a nondescript St. Louis realtor handling the negotiations. Junior had used a fictitious name, of course, but one with which he’d already built up a good credit rating, so there was no problem whatsoever. After the great state of California’s real estate prices, the old mill, with its attached log cabin, was the damn steal of the century. The previous owner had already set up residence in Fairbanks, Alaska, and had left both the house and the mill fully furnished and ready for immediate occupancy. He’d also left an old brown Chevrolet pickup truck and a beat-to-hell white 2008 Concorde, both thrown into the deal for some extra cash. The deed was done and signed and notarized—they were definitely good to go.
Junior and Lucky were now proud residents of the Show-Me State and ready to show off their considerable murder skills. They were eager to set up operations at their very own distinctly private killing lair on the shores of Lake of the Ozarks. They’d always wanted a place where they were isolated enough to butcher a person to their heart’s delight. Neither had ever done that before—but it was a definite challenge that was now in the cards.
It might take a lot of time to set up those kinds of intricate torture chambers, but they would have all the time in the world after they finished killing Junior’s little sis. She would have to die the old-fashioned way, but that was how Junior wanted it to go down—inside her new house that his daddy had bought her. He wanted his daddy to find her dead and bloody and violated in extreme ways.
They drove into a cold and snowy Camdenton on Highway 5 and found the road out to their new property. The old mill lay at the end of a narrow, weed-choked gravel road. Neither of them had ever lived out in the woods, and they liked the idea of being conveniently cloaked from neighbors by stands of towering trees and underbrush. It felt unsettling at first—way out there in the middle of the nowhere, it was bizarrely quiet and as dark as pitch at night, but pretty nice, too. No traffic or nosy neighbors, no police sirens, no police presence, period. Yes, that was indeed a plus.
The millhouse had this great big gristwheel that turned slowly on the current of their very own personal stream that rushed through their property before gurgling itself down a hill into an inlet of the lake. It creaked round and round with a horror-movie clunk and groan. They decided they could put it to good use as a water torture device once they got settled and got their games going. That idea particularly appealed to Junior. This could be their secret hidey-hole out in the woods where all sorts of macabre fantasies could rise to fruition. But first things first: they had to find Junior’s dear little soon-to-be-deceased sissy and put the newfound heiress out of her misery.
And find her they did. In record time, too. It didn’t take them long at all once they ferreted out the location of the house that Junior’s father had bought for her. The rustic mansion was being used for a Christmas tour, of all the stupidest things in the world. So they dressed up in nondescript jeans, sweatshirts, and winter jackets, bought a couple of tickets, and waltzed their way innocently through the house where they intended to commit the most horrific of murders.
Since all was meant to be, their luck held, and as the tour wound up, who should show up in a late-model black Mustang but his soon-to-be-dead half-sister. Junior recognized her right away as he was getting into the old brown truck after the tour had finished. He watched her park the Mustang, get out, and wait for the other people to clear out of the driveway. After most of them were gone, she stood in front of the house, holding a pizza box in her hand and chatting with some lady as it gradually got dark outside and at least fifty million strings of lights blinked on.
“Let’s go meet that little bitch,” Junior said to Lucky, starting up the truck. He rolled his vehicle slowly over to where she was now standing alone and slid down his window. “Excuse me, miss, but the tour’s already over. Sorry you missed it.”
The girl turned around and presented him with a friendly smile, then she walked up to the driver’s window. “Oh, I know. I’ve been waiting for everyone to clear out.” She glanced up at the big house. “This is my new house, but I can barely believe it. It’s so beautiful.”
“It sure is,” Lucky told her, grinning real friendly-like. “Awfully big for little old you, isn’t it?”
She giggled. “Yeah, it’s way too big for me. But my daddy’s gonna live here with me for part of the year. When he can get away.”
Junior felt his muscles tensing up. “That’s nice. I don’t think he’s here, though. We didn’t see him. Are you waiting for him?”
“No, no, I sneaked in a day early so I could surprise him. He’s staying at Cedar Bend Lodge. Can you tell me where that is?”
“Afraid not. We’re new in town.”
“Well, I’m Heather Jax. It’s very nice to meet you.”
They both smiled and related their false identities. Junior’s expression was more of a grimace.
“Man, does that pizza ever smell good,” Lucky said with a big, fake grin.
“It’s my favorite: pineapple papaya. It’s hard to find, but it’s yummy.”
“Sounds good.”
Heather Jax smiled at them some more. “Did you enjoy the Christmas tour?”
“Yes, ma’am, we sure did. You have got yourself one gorgeous house.”
“Thank you. My daddy’s very generous with his gifts. He calls me his little angel.”
Yeah, and she’s gonna be a dead little angel real soon, Junior thought. His teeth came together hard enough to crack, but he kept up the smiling. “Okay then, if you’re okay out here alone, we’re gonna take off. We just wanted to make sure you were going to be all right.”
“Thank you. That’s so considerate. I’ve found that the people I’ve met around here are just really as nice as can be.”
“We have, too. How about we wait here until you get inside?” offered Lucky from the passenger seat.
“I appreciate that. But I’ll be fine out here until tomorrow morning. Then my daddy’s coming out here to be with me.”
Huh uh, thought Junior. You won’t be fine ever again, not after tonight. The thought got him all excited. The two coldblooded murderers sat there and watched her, their truck idling, their bloodlust rising, as she climbed up the steps and opened the front door with her own damn key. She turned and smiled and waved before she went inside and shut the door. She was in there all by her lonesome now, ripe for the taking. Junior and Lucky looked at each other and started laughing their heads off. She was just so friendly and naïve. They were casing her murder scene, and she didn’t have a clue. Sweet. They drove off, highly pleased. Now they knew where Junior’s daddy was, too, and they decided to check that out. Make sure he was in town so he could find his angel’s body.
As it turned out, the first thing they caught sight of at the big, fancy hotel was a large crowd of paparazzi around the front portico. Not so good, that. They parked and hung around the edges of the throng, eavesdropping on what they were saying to each other and pretending they were press, too. Most of the guys seemed to be waiting around to shoot pictures of some semi-famous couple who owned the hotel, but the reporters were also getting excited about rumors that a rock star had checked in recently. One had even caught a glimpse of the guy standing out on a balcony and pointed out the exact room for them. They decided to check it out. Lucky went inside and reserved them a fancy suite right down the hall from daddy dearest. Junior pulled his hood up and hung back out of sight, even though he figured his dad wouldn’t recognize him in a million years. He’d changed a lot since he was six, after all.
Lucky, on the other hand, was not as restricted. Nobody knew him, so he was free to reconnoiter the lay of the land. Lucky had always been a friendly sort, when he wasn’t offing people, a downright sociable homeboy, a real chameleon who could change his mien depending on who he was talking to. Quite an actor, he was. He joked around with the security guards and shutterbugs and didn’t cause one iota of suspicion, especially from the big black guy who stood guard outside Junior’s daddy’s suite. He stood there and talked basketball and Beyoncé with the guy, and it didn’t take Lucky long to catch a glimpse of the notorious rock star and some sexpot who was his latest squeeze. She looked good, too, and gave Lucky a flirty glance as she walked past him and down to the ice machine.
Junior was elated to hear that he now had a front row seat to his father’s grief and suffering once he found his very dead little daughter inside her new house. Watching him cry would make the trip totally worthwhile. Junior wasted no time putting his plan into action. Murdering a young, defenseless girl in an empty house out in the middle of nowhere wouldn’t exactly comport with brain surgery—not for them, anyway. The silly girl was all alone and just asking for it. How damned convenient.
It would have to be that night—his daddy might come the next day, and their window of opportunity would be lost. The next tour wasn’t scheduled until the following afternoon—it was now or never. No problem; they had already planned the whole thing out on the long and boring drive east from Los Angeles to Missouri.
So, later that night, when it was dark and quiet in those remote woods around little sissy’s house, they hunkered down inside a thicket of tall trees out back. Despite the snow and inclement weather, they had hiked in so as to avoid the electronic gate at the entrance to the exclusive subdivision. They weren’t in California anymore, or there would’ve been a security guard manning that ornate bricked entrance. The tons of falling snow boded well for them as well, because it was covering up their footprints. So far, everything was going well with their detailed game plan. They were at the scene, jacked up to kill a young girl who needed to die. It was so late at night that all the exterior Christmas lights were off, and sissy was in bed. There was just one small light burning on the second floor. It was the master bathroom—they’d seen it on the tour. The master suite also had a nice screened-in balcony, with log walls that had footholds which were a cinch to climb.
They made it to their entry point easily enough, and Lucky slit the screen with his switchblade. No problems whatsoever. Not a sound. Dead silence. They waited a few minutes and listened for movement inside, but heard nothing. Man, it was just eerily quiet. Dear Heather had to be asleep; it was three o’clock in the morning. Lucky hunched over and moved to the French door. The handle turned easily—unlocked. Easy, peasy. This murder was meant to be, all right. It was so effortless that it was almost a let-down. No challenge whatsoever. Then, there she was: their precious little victim, lying on her side, sound asleep in bed. Easy pickings, you bet your life.
They tiptoed across the room and made it to the large sleigh bed before she roused. Heather quickly sat up in bed, but Junior was already on one side and Lucky on the other. She let out the shrillest shriek Junior had ever heard, high-pitched enough to vibrate his eardrums, but he didn’t bother to shut her up. Nobody was anywhere near the place—all the other houses were at least a half mile away, certainly not within hearing distance. He liked to hear women scream in terror. It had become music to his ears.
His sweet little sister was nothing but a sitting duck, all right. They grabbed her and pulled her out of the bed, then they shoved her back and forth between them for a while to scare the absolute crap out of her. After that, they dragged her down the hall to the second-floor balcony of the big library, which was full to the brim with more Christmas lights. They turned them all on. She had on a long, flowing white nightgown; it made her look like her daddy’s little angel, all right—albeit a terrified one. So Hark! the Herald Angels Sing, and they’d get her to heaven so she could join with the heavenly host.
“Who are you? What do you want?” she kept screaming at the top of her voice.
“I’m your big bro, kiddo,” Junior told her calmly, pushing her down onto her knees beside the upstairs bannister. “Didn’t know you had a brother, now did you? Well, guess what? You do. And it’s me. And guess what else? You are gonna die tonight—right now, in fact.”
That’s when she really started putting up a life-and-death, scratching, kicking fight for survival. She was small and light, but she struggled and screamed and jerked with all her scrawny might. But her might didn’t amount to all that much. She was too little-bitty. She never had a chance in hell. They slapped her around some, and then they forced her to sit on the floor and play Live or Die with them. Aw, she proved to be such an unlucky soul: She drew the Dead card right off the bat, poor kid. Then she drew the Get-Clobbered-in-the-Head card, so that’s exactly what Junior would do—with the utmost pleasure.
“Wait a sec,” Lucky told him, grabbing his arm. “She looks like an angel. Let’s put her on top of the tree first.” He laughed at the idea. “That ought to shock your daddy.”
Junior held her up onto her tiptoes by her throat and glanced down at the big Christmas tree on the other side of the bannister. He laughed, too, thinking Lucky’s idea was way cool. Lucky picked her up and put her atop the rail, and then took out the nails and hammer he’d brought along. Heather screamed and struggled as he put a nail in each hand, and then she gave up the struggle and just slumped there, moaning and groaning. Junior pulled out the big trophy he’d gotten at a flea market in Arizona and decided to use as the murder weapon. Lucky stepped back out of the way, and Junior swung the heavy black trophy hard. Poor kid was dead and gone the second the blow shattered the back of her skull. Blood flew about everywhere, just the way Junior liked it, all over the hardwood floor and the timber wall behind them. Their little angel slumped down and was never heard from again. Junior felt nothing. Daddy’s poor little daughter. Gone, baby, gone.
Then they leaned her back, and Lucky held her steady while Junior whittled out a hole in her stomach with a switchblade and stuffed the little dog tag way down into her body. Now she really was a true trophy daughter. After that, Junior stood back and was satisfied. He had never hated anybody the way he hated her. He watched Lucky wrap a halo of lights around her head for effect; Lucky always had to be theatrical. He should’ve been a movie actor. But that was okay—Junior’s daddy deserved to find her posed that way. Right above the Christmas tree that he had no doubt bought for her. Lucky situated the hem of her gown to hang over the edge and cover the star. Nothing beat a life-size bloody angel on the top of a beautiful Christmas tree, now did it?
After that, they descended a wide spiral staircase and stood at the base of the tree. Lucky took the murder weapon in his gloved hands and tucked it, blood and all, among the wrapped presents. Then they placed the little gaily wrapped box with the dog tag out in front of the other gifts for the detectives to ponder over and get all confused. For a time, Junior and Lucky just stood there at the bottom of the tree and gazed up at their dead little angel. Then they looked at each other, more than pleased by their artful handiwork. Now, this was a murder scene that the hick local police would never be able to forget, not in a million years. Neither would a certain aging rock star, who now had only one surviving son to inherit every cent of his money.
“Okay, there you go, she’s dead as a doornail and on her way to heaven,” Lucky told Junior. “You happy now?”
“You bet I am. I haven’t felt this good about anything in a long time.”
“Then let’s get the hell out of here and watch the fun over at Cedar Bend when your daddy gets the bad news. I bet we can hear him howling all the way down the hall.”
“I hope so,” said Junior. “It serves him right for cutting me out of his life the way he did.”
They made sure everything was wiped clean and left the place in pristine order as they always did. After they were satisfied that there were no clues left behind, they took little Heather’s driver’s license and car keys and headed out into that beautiful, soft snowfall coming down all around. They let themselves out the front door and hurried down the sidewalk to her black Mustang. They drove down the long drive to the main road, and then through the front gates that they opened wide with a touch to his dead sister’s remote control. Heather’s car would make one hell of a good killing machine to stash at the mill and use around the lake. Oh yeah, before they left, they were going to enjoy a real hot-damn thrill killing spree in the tangled wilds of rural Missouri.