Mind Games

The way he saw it, the bedrooms would be upstairs, most likely with a fancy-ass master suite. If they had a safe, it’d be up there, too, or in a home office deal or some look-how-smart-we-are library.

His take? Cash, jewelry, and one of the cars.

Then he’d drive it on down to North Carolina, have a night in a crap motel. Hit the road in the morning and be well on his way to Myrtle Beach before anybody knew the rich bitch and bastard were dead.

Solid plan, he decided, and gulped down some Coke. Now he just had to find something to do for a few hours.

He went to the mall, wandered around, hit the arcade, then went to the movies. Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen.

It wasn’t half bad.

About eleven, he took an easy cruise down that quiet, high-class street.

Too many lights on in the neighborhood yet. So he drove around awhile, noting the best routes to take to 95 heading south after his work was done.

By one, the street held quiet. Some porch lights, some security lights, a light here and there people left on in a house thinking it would scare a burglar off.

He’d worked out his plan of approach, so drove around to the back. Cutting the headlights, he pulled into a driveway, switched off the engine.

He waited, watching for a light to come on, a dog to bark, but the silence held. After pulling on his gloves, he gave the front seat, the steering wheel, the dash, another good wipe down. Then took the 9mm Smith & Wesson from under the driver’s seat.

He’d scored that after his third kill—the slick lawyer and his bitch with the big fake tits.

He’d slit their throats like he had the couple before them, and Jesus! That was a fucking mess. Not that he didn’t like seeing all that blood, but he didn’t much care for having it all over him.

But along with the cash, the jewelry, he scored the gun.

Plenty of ammo, too. And he could buy more when he needed.

He didn’t claim to be much of a shot, but at close range, it didn’t matter.

He’d proven that his next time out.

He put the gun in the leather clip-on holster he’d scored from the same slick lawyer, then got his bags out of the trunk.

He traveled light, so he hitched on the backpack, shouldered the duffle.

He closed the trunk—quietly—wiped it down, then headed off.

His route took him across the yard of another rich man’s house, over an easily scalable fence, and straight into the one he wanted with its sparkling pool and wide patio. And that second-story deck? Oh yeah, inside those doors, that’s where the rich bitch with her fancy watch slept.

He skirted the pool, crossed the patio, where he noted the grill, one so big, so shiny, that it probably cost two or three grand.

Just seeing it standing there, shining, made his resentment build. He wished he had a bat or a pipe. If he’d had a bat or a pipe, he’d have beat the shit out of that grill.

Instead, he pulled in the rage. He had work to do, and his work needed a clear mind.

Breathing slow, breathing deep, he laid his gloved hands on the patio doors. And pushed that clear mind inside the house.

He had that talent, and always had.

His mother had tried to pray it out of him; his father had tried to logic it out of him.

They failed.

One day, one day down the road, he’d pay them back, pay them back for not giving him a big-ass house like this to grow up in, a pool to splash in.

He’d pay them back for cooking burgers on a crap charcoal grill instead of steaks on a big, shiny one.