Pressure - By Jeff Strand Page 0,81
a real bullet hit.”
Jeremy frowned. “I thought priests were supposed to inspire.”
“I’m not a priest. I’m studying to be a minister.”
“But he’s right,” I said. “We just need to scale it back. One victim. Somebody willing to disappear for a while.”
Jeremy raised his hand. “I’m willing.”
“Really?”
“Put me in a hotel room with cable and I’m yours.”
“So we’d only have to do one convincing death. Do either of you know any special effects people?”
“Not me,” Jeremy admitted.
“I don’t,” said Peter, “but again, keep scaling it down. Unless the effect is absolutely seamless, you’ll get caught. If the video is exposed as a fraud, Darren will know you’re up to something, and you’ve blown this kind of opportunity forever.”
“So maybe the victim doesn’t die,” I said.
“Exactly.”
“I just threaten to kill him.”
“Exactly.”
“And if I’m making the video myself, there’s nobody else involved.”
“Exactly.”
“This is gonna be awesome,” Jeremy said. “I haven’t been this excited about something in ten years!”
“What about your wedding days?” Peter asked.
“They still make the top five. Jeez. Two of ’em do, anyway.”
“So when do we do this?” I asked.
“We don’t,” said Peter. “I mean I don’t. I’ve got a wife and five kids. God doesn’t want me to live in fear, but God also doesn’t want me to be dumb enough to attract a serial killer with a snuff video.”
“Absolutely understood,” I said.
“But I won’t say anything. Maybe I’ll make myself unavailable. Debra and I have been wanting to take the kids on a family cruise.”
“How do you afford a cruise for seven people on an aspiring priest’s salary?” Jeremy asked.
“Aspiring minister. We do all right.”
“I can see that, but how?”
“Debra writes.”
“Really? She’s published?”
Peter nodded, a bit uncomfortable.
“What does she write?” I asked.
“Romances.”
“Wow.”
“Erotic romances.”
Jeremy and I exchanged an unbelievably amused look.
“Debra writes smut?” Jeremy asked.
“It’s not smut. It celebrates romance and the human body.”
“So you read smut?” I asked.
“No. Just hers. I look for continuity errors.”
“Like, what? There were seven people in the bed in the previous chapter and now there are only six?”
“There’s a market for this! You have five kids and see how resistant you are to those royalty checks! I don’t have to discuss this with you!”
“Can I find these in my local bookstore?”
“Yes, but she writes under a pen name. And I’m not going to tell you what it is, because the two of you are just immature enough to mail me highlighted pages.”
“I would never dream of doing that,” said Jeremy, the picture of innocence. “How much of it comes from real life, you hot stud muffin?”
Peter laughed. “I’ve already said too much. Now who’s up for more pie?”
Chapter Twenty-five
Two days later, Jeremy and I were in my home. Though Peter owned a video camera, and though we happily tormented Peter with graphic speculation about the bedroom antics that had been recorded by that very video camera, borrowing it didn’t seem like a good idea. We wanted as few ties to Peter as possible. So I rented one from a local shop.
We’d decided that the subtle approach was not necessarily the best one, and so the tape was to be a direct message to Darren. I would hold the camera myself, and show Jeremy in my bathtub, bound with duct tape. Then I would speak to the camera, letting Darren know that I would be ending Jeremy’s life “where the rope burned your skin.”
The problem was that the video wasn’t working. Jeremy didn’t look scared enough. I didn’t sound convincing at all, and I kept flubbing my lines.
After the ninth or tenth failed attempt, I slammed the video camera down on the bathroom sink and ripped off the duct tape that covered Jeremy’s mouth. “Let’s just call it off.”
“We can’t.”
“They won’t even air this. The people in the newsroom will laugh themselves silly. We’ll end up on some bloopers show.”
“No, we can do this,” Jeremy insisted. “We just have to really sell it.”
“I don’t know how.”
We were silent for a long moment.
“What if you didn’t just threaten me with that knife?” asked Jeremy.
“You mean, actually cut you?”
“Not deep, but a real cut. Don’t even tell me where you’re going to do it. Just slash me a couple of times when you film me in the tub.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Sure you can. You cut me, and then you cut yourself. Two good slices across your chest. When they blow that up, look at it pixel by pixel, they’ll see that it’s real.”
“I can cut myself easier than I can cut you.”
“You can do both. Make me