P s youre dead, p.1
P.S. YOU'RE DEAD, page 1
P.S. YOU'RE DEAD
CONNOR CROMAG THRILLER #2
Raoul Edmund
RICHPORT PRESS
P.S. YOU’RE DEAD
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination
or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events,
locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Raoul Edmund
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or
reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the express
written permission of the author except in the case of
brief quotations embodied in critical reviews or articles.
Cover design by Rocking Book Covers.com
RICHPORT PRESS
P.O. Box 8203
Cave Creek, AZ 85327
ISBN: 978-1-7374776-4-8
eBook ISBN: 978-1-7374776-5-5
Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
To Shirley, Tiny, and Peggy
Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
CHAPTER 83
CHAPTER 84
CHAPTER 85
EPILOGUE
Acknowledgments
A Word From Raoul Edmund
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
Derek looked down at his penis: hard, long, like an aboriginal spear—ready to go. The first erection of the day was always the best. He looked down at Emily, lying there on the gaudy velveteen couch, and asked her, “Are you ready for me, baby?”
Emily was wearing a truckload of makeup: lips gleaming with fire engine-red lipstick; eyes peering out like an owl’s from a mountain of heaped shadow; false lashes like ostrich feathers, gooped with a ton of mascara. The whole nine. She pursed her injection-fattened lips and said, “Oh, yeah… do me...” She moaned, breathlessly, licking her lips while she stared at his erection—a cliched gesture to convey how much she craved that cock.
He positioned his penis over her vulva. Her “Mount of Venus” had been manicured to leave just a sliver of pubic hair—what they called a “landing strip.” He rubbed his glans over her glistening labia, pausing teasingly at the portal to her vagina, then darting away again. Emily was moaning with heightened expectancy—all fake as shit—but very convincing.
With a smooth thrust, he entered her. The first fuck of the day never gets old, he thought, delighting in the engulfing warmth of initial penetration. They moved in the rhythms of intercourse until his climax was imminent. The point of no return, he called it. He timed his withdrawal perfectly, ejaculating in hot streams onto her stomach and mons.
“That was great!” a voice behind him said.
“Fantastic!” said another. “Wrap it!”
Derek got up off Emily and one of the fluffs threw him a towel. He dabbed at his penis, now losing tumescence, and smiled. Another successful “money shot” in the can. The director and soundman congratulated him and Emily on a successful take, and the grips started moving the camera and mikes to another set for another scene.
They were in an industrial park in Chatsworth, California, inside what appeared to be just another of the dozens of warehouses in the area. But this warehouse was different. It had been partitioned off into fifteen different little rooms. Some rooms were furnished to look like bedrooms; one resembled an office setting; one looked like a classroom. There was even one with a convertible car, its top down at a lover’s lane, and another that resembled the inside of a school bus. They were miniature movie sets. The characteristic they all shared? They were all places where people could have sex. This was a warehouse owned by Galaxy Productions, one of the largest distributors of pornography in the world. Each year, in this cramped six-thousand-square-foot building, Galaxy filmed enough sexually explicit footage to encircle the earth many times over.
Derek checked his cellphone for messages and then went over to Emily. He hugged her, they air-kissed, and went their separate ways. He enjoyed working with Emily. She was young, agile, and could fuck for days. But best of all, she was a world-class fellatrix who could coax an erection out of any penis, even if it had already labored through three or four money shots that day. She was special. He wished he could do more work with her, because she was a real pro—not like those stuck-up, entitled college chicks from UCLA looking to make a few bucks by fucking and sucking on camera as a side-hustle. The college bitches didn’t have a clue what it meant to be a professional performer in adult films.
CHAPTER 2
Loretta got off the couch, slowly. Ooh, she groaned, not getting any younger… She stood up. She was no spring chicken, to be sure, but she was still perky and mobile. Didn’t require a walker or a cane—not yet, anyway, she thought, as she went to the kitchen.
Today was her birthday—her sixty-seventh—and it had already gotten off to a wonderful start. Her old friend, John, whom she’d known for over thirty years, had come over earlier to wish her a Happy Birthday. He’d given her a bouquet. Tulips: her favorite. Since John was confined to a wheelchair and could no longer get around by himself, he had brought his nephew along. What a handsome young man his nephew was—his name was Derek—and he was the spitting image of John!
The three of them had enjoyed their visit. She’d prepared fresh-squeezed lemonade, and they’d all had a glass sitting around her kitchen table. She waxed philosophical, as she often did when she recalled the past—even the immediate past that had taken place less than a half-hour ago!
She told herself it was just part of aging; everybody went through it. It was always good to see old friends—people you had history with—no matter how unusual that history might be. Funny, how in retrospect, people looked at their pasts and often wondered, What was I thinking? How on earth did I do that? She was no different. The early days, when she had left her Midwestern hometown and arrived in California and met John, were not something she was proud of. But it was part of her history, indelible—much like a tattoo—and she had hidden and kept it secret from everybody but her closest friends. People like John.
Now she was old, and like so many others her age, intrigued by the latest scientific advances that promised to reverse aging. She was not stupid, or gullible, like so many who fall prey to their desire to turn back the clock. She was not immune to those desires, but regarded them sensibly, and evaluated the prospects from a mature, intelligent perspective.
That was why she had developed an interest in stem-cell regenerative therapy. She had researched it, proud of herself for having conducted that research “online.” She had used the “internet” just like the youngsters did! What she didn’t realize was that her browsing history was fair game, and she was instantly targeted as a sales lead by companies that specialized in stem-cell therapy.
She thought it had been just a coincidence that a representative had contacted her—and so quickly—but didn’t give it any further thought, agreeing to an in-home presentation. The sales rep’s name was Carl Wallace, and his company was called “Rejuveron.” She’d only spoken to him over the phone, but his pitch was persuasive. If his company could deliver even half of what he said they could, she wanted to know more. She wasn’t getting any younger! Her appointment with Carl was today, and he would arrive in about twenty minutes. She was giddy with excitement, like a teenage girl. She
CHAPTER 3
He glanced at the nav screen in his car. Getting close. He’d be there any minute. The system’s droid voice, for which he had selected the British accent option, said “Arrived” as he pulled up at a small but well-maintained condo in Studio City. He checked his reflection in the mirror, put a stray hair back in place, straightened out his tie and made sure his briefcase contained everything he would need.
The last thing he did before exiting was a habitual behavior he performed, almost unconsciously, when he was nervous. He grabbed the watch on his left wrist, turned the knurled bezel ring back and forth, and polished its face. It was a nervous tic; one he’d cultivated ever since he’d bought the watch. He looked down at it, exhaled on its face, and buffed it with the cuff of his shirtsleeve. It was a Rolex Yacht Master—quite expensive—and special to him.
He approached the condo and noticed a “Ring” doorbell set-up—the type with a camera that allows the resident to see who is at the door. This kind of security accessory was very popular these days—especially among the elderly. He made a mental note to disable it before he left. No need leaving a visual record of my visit. He straightened his tie again and made a final perfunctory time-check, rubbing his watch and gazing at its jewel-studded face. Right on time. Things were proceeding according to schedule.
He rang the bell and waited. A woman’s voice came through the external speaker.
“Yes…?”
“Loretta Brown?” he asked, in the most non-threatening, confidence-instilling tone he could muster. He cocked his head back slightly for the camera, trying not to have it appear intentional. And he flashed his best thousand-watt smile.
“Yes… can I help you, young man?”
“Hi Loretta,” he said. “It’s Carl Wallace, from Rejuveron. We had an appointment this morning…”
“Oh yes,” she said. “One moment…”
She unlatched what seemed like half-a-dozen deadbolts. It must be a bitch to get old, he thought. Finally, the door opened and there she was. She was wearing a fashionable skirt and a tight sweater—maybe too tight for a woman her age—but he couldn’t help noticing how shapely and well-proportioned she still was. Bet you were a knockout, back in the day… She motioned him in and bolted the door behind him.
He felt nervous, despite the confident pose he had assumed upon his arrival. Now that he was actually here, he felt pangs of anxiety. But that was to be expected. After all, he had never killed anybody before. Everybody must get nervous the first time, right?
In contrast to Loretta Brown’s well-preserved person, her place had the look and ambience of an old crone-cave. Outdated sofas and recliners, draped in gaudy, floral-print slipcovers. Crocheted doilies on the arms. Right next to the sofa, a basket of yarn, needles and patterns. And the peculiar reek—it smelled like a combination of spray starch and a hint of urine—that permeated everything. Something about the place repulsed him. The cliched furnishings and air of resignation that permeated the place spoke to the loneliness of an aging soul awaiting the approach of death. In one sense, this would be a mercy killing, he thought.
“Would you like some lemonade?” she asked. “It’s homemade.” He would, he said. And she went into the kitchen.
As soon as she had disappeared from sight, he reached for his case and set it on the dining room table. There were place settings all laid out—probably for an indeterminate time—for people who would never sit and eat there. The heirloom china, lead crystal, the proper complement of forks, knives, dessert spoons. It looked like a cover shot from Family Circle magazine.
From the kitchen, movement: the clinking of glass, the pouring of liquid. She would come back shortly. Gotta get moving. He opened his attaché. The materials for his “presentation” were laid out neatly: a huge, ultra-realistic dildo, perfectly molded to resemble an erect black penis; crotchless panties; a lace brassiere with cut-outs for the nipples; and some ultra-sheer hosiery from Victoria’s Secret. Good. Everything was there. The clack of her kitten heels on the tiled floor got louder as she approached. He could let her have it right there, but the lemonade would make quite a mess on the floor and the broken glass would present a hazard while he was doing what he had to do. He decided to wait. He took the glass from her and drained it in one prolonged gulp.
“You must have been thirsty, young man.”
“Yes, I was. And please—call me Carl.”
She went to reach for his empty glass, but he had already set it down on the table. He reached into the case and extracted the crotchless panties, holding them up in front of her face. She looked at them, squinting to make sure her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her. He was smiling—an evil, twisted smile. This was the first signal to Loretta that all was not as it should be, that something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
The second signal came seconds later, as the young man’s clenched fist made a wide arc at chest height and came crashing into her left temple. She dropped like a pallet of cinderblocks. He was astounded at how quickly and assertively she had hit the floor. He looked down at her, not knowing what to expect. Had he knocked her unconscious? In his heart, he hoped so; it would simplify the rest of the process. He didn’t need a squirming, resistant old bag putting up a fight at this point.
His wishes were not to be granted, however—not this time. She came to her senses, looking up in fear and astonishment. What had happened? And why? What had she done to turn the handsome young man into a raging attacker? She was terrified and bewildered, and could do nothing more than to mouth the word “Why?” as she looked up at him.
He looked down at her. She seemed to have aged ten years. Fear can do that. Despite her frailty and helplessness being thus magnified, it did nothing to elicit one shred of sympathy or mercy from him.
She asked him, gasping as if her very next breath would be her last, “Wh-who are you? Wh-what do you want?” Her eyes, full of tears, peered out from their wrinkled sockets.
“Let’s just say that for now, I am the Avenging Angel,” he hissed, “and as for my identity, that will be my little secret. But then, you know all about secrets, don’t you? DON’T YOU?” he screamed, putting his face inches from hers. The pulsing veins in his neck punctuated his anger, pumping a gusher of rage up his brainstem and washing his face in a crimson flood that threatened to burst from the top of his skull.
Knowing now that her life was in jeopardy, and being negotiated in the mind of this madman, she resorted to the only thing she knew might give her a chance at survival, desperate though it seemed. It had worked in the past, with so many other men.
“Is it sex you want?” she asked imploringly, hoping to see a glimmer of recognition, of acceptance of her offer, in the dark, frigid pools of his eyes. “I’m good at it, you’ll see. I can’t have intercourse with you, but I can give you oral… I might surprise you with how good I am at oral…”
He knelt down closer, to look directly into her eyes. “It wouldn’t surprise me one bit, you fucking whore. That’s all you were ever good at, wasn’t it, you piece-of-shit slut! Well, your sexual prowess and ability to please men might have greased your way back in the past, but it won’t win you one extra minute of life now!”
He leaned over and picked up the stocking. He took an end in each hand, and twisted the diaphanous material into a taut garotte which he wrapped tightly around her neck, once—and then twice, to make sure he had traction. He pulled the ends apart, trapping her frail, wrinkled neck in the silken vise, then pulled tighter… and tighter. How thin her neck was! It was about the circumference of a French baguette, under his concerted strangulation—and he realized this was just another lesson in his learning process about how to murder old women. Loretta Brown was his first, but she would not be his last.
As she struggled and her life slipped away, he became sexually aroused. He had not been expecting this. His throbbing penis was now fully tumescent, straining against his pants, as she choked and attempted to loosen the grip of the silken python around her neck, squeezing the last breath from her body. As she spasmed in death, he ejaculated in hot spurts. He couldn’t remember when he had a climax so intense. He reached down with two fingers and felt her carotid. No pulse. She was dead.
