The Killing League - By Dani Amore Page 0,34

Total pussy, Dawson thought. Sure as shit.

Dawson looked around at the rest of the people in the room. What a bunch of assholes. The guy in the suit was sort of interesting. He had a brief fantasy about getting the guy up in one of the rooms, hitting him over the head and having his way with him.

Leave him up there until the maids come the next morning and find whatever was left of him.

Dawson started to get a hardon.

He went over to the guy in the suit. He sat in the empty chair next to him. Dawson could smell his cologne.

It smelled good.

Dude wouldn’t smell so good after he was done with him, Dawson thought.

43.

Nicole

Of all the tools Nicole had learned to use from her team of therapists, counselors and friends, one was her favorite.

It was called the Scrapbook of Memories.

After the attack and the publicity, Nicole had fallen into a deep depression. She had isolated herself, save for a select few, and her moods had become increasingly negative. She was also highly paranoid, even though no one could blame her for that emotion.

Her therapist at the time had pointed out her new pattern of seeing everything, even the past, in negative terms. Even though everyone told her it was very normal — survivor guilt, post-traumatic stress syndrome — it didn’t feel normal. And simply knowing what your illness is doesn’t necessarily make it easier to deal with.

Nicole’s therapist finally suggested a journal where she could start recording positive experiences, including things from her past if she wished.

It was to be a scrapbook of positive memories.

Nicole had initially scoffed at the idea. A Happy Book, she had originally thought of it. Filled with only happy pictures and happy thoughts. It sounded like something for a kindergarten project. Or something used by that Saturday Night Live character, Stuart Smalley. What had been his catchphrase? Oh yeah, she remembered. ‘Because I’m good enough, smart enough, and gosh darn it, people like me!’

Nicole laughed out loud.

Over time, however, the therapist had convinced her to give it a try, despite her cynicism. She had gone back to her childhood, picked out ten or so of her favorite memories. Like the time her Mom and Dad had surprised her with an electric scooter on her birthday. The time she had finally scored a goal in soccer. The afternoon tea she had shared with her favorite Grandmother weeks before the elderly woman had passed away.

Nicole eventually added more pictures, short notes she would write about special days, even if it was just a hike through the mountains with a friend or an especially beautiful sunrise.

The book had now become almost two hundred pages, and Nicole was a believer.

Now, she flipped through the pages at random, and found herself smiling, as usual. She had added a page of things collected over the last few months, including the grand opening of Thicque.

She turned as she always did to the two pictures in the book of Wallace Mack. One was a clipping from a newspaper that showed his tired face. It had been snapped at a press conference.

The other photograph was taken of the two of them walking along the beach in Santa Monica. It was well after the publicity of the shocking case had gone away. Mack had frequently visited Nicole, trying to help her through her pain. Ultimately, she had pushed him away because even though she suspected she had fallen in love with him, and she surmised he had fallen in love with her too, the memories he stirred up were too much for Nicole. She had needed a break from Mack. From the case. From the memories of Jeffrey Kostner.

So they had separated for a brief time.

They had never gotten back together.

Now, Nicole flipped through the pages. She wasn’t quite sure why she had turned again to the book. She rarely questioned the need, only that the vague sense of darkness that used to blossom inside her like ink in water was known to hang around, waiting for an opening.

Maybe it had been just one of those days when a person feels like they need to smile, Nicole thought. One of those days when you can see the clouds looming and need a shot of sunshine to make sure at least a little warmth will seep through the day.

Or maybe deep down, she knew something bad was going to happen.

44.

The Butcher

Roy Skittlecorn was not a traveler. In the last twenty years he had left