Helltown - Jeremy Bates Page 0,91

didn’t go down. Instead he grabbed a fistful of her hair, bending her sideways, and growled, “Eat this, bitch!” He dragged her to the nearest car and slammed her face against the hood, smashing teeth loose from her gums and knocking her senseless.

CHAPTER 29

“Trust is a tough thing to come by these days.”

The Thing (1982)

Spencer made a left onto Grandview Lane, an unpaved rural road that switch-backed to the top of Eagle Bluff. The posted speed limit was twenty miles an hour, but it was wise to slow to half that when rounding the hairpin corners, especially in a full-blown storm.

The Volvo’s windshield wipers thumped back and forth like a metronome, yet even on the fastest setting they barely cleared the water gushing down the windshield. Inside the vehicle, however, it was comfortable, with heat humming softly from the dashboard vents, warming the chill air. Paul McCartney sang of yesterdays on the tape cassette.

Spencer had been a fan of the Beatles since he saw them on their 1965 North America tour at the Cow Palace in San Francisco. This was a year before the official inauguration of the Church of Satan. He had gone with Anton LeVay, who had used his connections to get them backstage passes, and while LeVay had been tripping out on acid with Ringo Starr and George Harrison, Spencer had spent an hour speaking to Yoko Ono. They’d been alone, sipping wine in a room with comfortable sofas, but aside from this all he could recall of their time together was the nearly uncontrollable urge he’d had to strangle her to death. Although he had these urges often, the reason for the intensity of that particular urge, he suspected, was because she was famous—or at least famous by association to someone famous by merit—and he had never killed a famous woman before. But of course killing her had been out of the question. He would never have gotten away with it. So he parted her company with a pleasant farewell and a kiss on the cheek.

When John Lennon was murdered fifteen years later, Spencer had liked to think he was indirectly responsible for the man’s death. Because if he’d killed Yoko Ono that day in 1965, John Lennon’s life would have followed a different path. He might never have purchased the apartment at The Dakota. He might never have returned from Record Plant Studio on that fateful night. And even had the delusional man who shot him tracked him down elsewhere, the bullet he fired might not have been fatal.

Time, Spencer thought, was like a coat with an infinite number of pockets containing an infinite number of futures: you never knew what lay hidden within each.

A reflective yellow road sign warned of an upcoming turn.

Spencer slowed to fifteen miles an hour and reminded himself to return the jerry cans to the shelf in the garage, and to wash his hands in the first-floor bathroom, to eliminate any trace smell of gasoline. He and Lynette no longer shared the same bed. He had taken to sleeping in the guest bedroom some years ago, so now it was no longer the guest bedroom, he supposed, but his bedroom. Even so, when the news of Mary of Sorrows church burning to the ground during the night reached her tomorrow, he didn’t need her wondering if she could smell gasoline as she puttered about the house. She wouldn’t be able to, of course, he was being paranoid, but being paranoid had served him well throughout the years.

At the summit of Eagle Bluff, Grandview Lane flattened out and continued for another half mile. He passed only two other residences, both impressive country estates with gated drives and three-car garages. Grandview Lane was the most desirable address in all of Summit County, offering sweeping views of Boston Mills Country Club far below.

Spencer’s home sat on two lush acres at the end of the road. It was a modern design made of reinforced concrete and glass, oval in shape, the second floor off-centered from the first in an avant-garde sort of way. He had designed it himself and had collaborated with the architects during the planning phase, then with the builders during the construction phase, making sure no corners were cut. It had been an expensive project, but money had not been an issue. He’d been investing in the local real estate market for nearly twenty years. He had a savvy knack at finding diamonds in the rough, and knowing when to cut