Posted by Derby on June 12, 2000 at 18:14:10:
FAMOUS LAST WORDS
by Derby
On a beautiful day in June, the Honorable Jim Copperton got into his SUV and drove off to kill his mistress.
Jim was not "sorry" that he had to kill Gloria. "Annoyed" would have been the better word. He had thoroughly enjoyed their four-year affair. Gloria was a superb lover: beautiful, energetic, skilled and, most importantly, talented at fellatio. During the constant political infighting that had made him an appellate judge, the handful of other women he had been able to spare time for had mostly been criminal defendants, eager to trade their bodies for a lighter sentence, but usually too dulled by beer and marijuana to be any good in bed. Gloria's wit, intelligence and literacy also distinguished her from the streetwalkers and druggies. Her company was a genuine pleasure, even when she and Jim were not having sex.
Jim almost gagged at the prospect of trading Gloria in for Kate Petrocelli. His skin crawled whenever he remembered the predatory gleam in Kate's eyes when she had looked up from the ring he'd given her and said, "Yes." He had not much enjoyed the passionless, ritualistic sex acts with which they'd formalized the engagement. But there were other things to consider. Kate's family was old money, with a power base in St. Louis to complement Jim's own network in Kansas City. In a year and a half, that power and money would make him governor. Then Senator. Then, God willing, the big one. A thousand indignities pave the road to power. Jim would accept the indignity of marrying Kate Petrocelli, and would even sleep with her when he felt the need.
But, even though no pretense of love existed between Jim and his fiancée, there would still be possessiveness. With ice-cold clarity, Kate had warned Jim that she would never stand up in front of national news cameras for him and grope for excuses for his infidelity. At the first hint that he was cheating, she would divorce him faster than you could say "Hillary Rodham."
He had to dump Gloria. So what happens to mistresses after they're dumped? When the gifts and money stop flowing? They want to replace it, that's what. And often the easiest way to do that is to publish a tell-all book to line the supermarket checkout stands, and start taking cash under the table for TV interviews. Worse yet, Gloria wouldn't need a ghost-writer. Before she had met Jim, she had supplemented her waitressing income by writing mysteries, and though she had been miserably unsuccessful at it, that was due more to lack of persistence and self-promotion than lack of talent as a writer. Jim had read her manuscripts; they were legitimately good, and he did not want that mordant pen turned against him.
Still, if all Gloria could have done was just to publish some seamy stories of fornication, Jim might not have risked something as chancy as murder. But she could hurt him worse than that. She would be able to match up the times he'd skipped CLEs and canceled docket dates, pleading a heavy workload, to the times he had run out to their love nest for sex and alcohol. She could total the amount of money he'd lavished on her, combine it with his own high style of living, and when the total far exceeded his judge's salary, that could well clue in the law to the large and frequent bribes he'd taken from the drug runners. Also, though he'd tried his best never to mention his political activities to Gloria, once or twice in the last four years he had accidentally mentioned personal details about figures from racist hate groups, figures who were secretly helping to finance his future gubernatorial campaign. Gloria was a good listener; she missed nothing, and it was unsafe to assume that she wouldn't make the connection between him and his unsavory backers.
Whether Jim liked it or not, he dared not allow anyone so dangerous as Gloria to live.
After a thirty mile drive he reached what they both called the "love nest" - a luxurious, secluded one-story cottage hidden from the highway by thick stands of pine trees. Jim turned into the drive and parked in a spot well sheltered by the trees. He reached behind his back, under his suit coat, to make sure the Ruger tucked in his waistband was still in easy reach. He checked his pocket, verifying that his cigarette lighter was there. Then he got out of the SUV, walked up the front steps onto the sun-splashed deck, and unlocked the door.
Gloria lay on her side on the chaise longue, facing toward the door. She was barefoot, wearing only a shortsleeved white wrap-around bathrobe that fell well short of her knees. She was reading a well-worn paperback, Spillane's "I, the Jury," gripped carelessly in one hand. She sipped red wine from one of the two crystal chalices on the glass coffee table as she read.
Gloria Mortensen was thirty-three, about five foot seven and 115 pounds soaking wet. She had light brown hair with flaxen blond highlights, partly pulled back in a clip, but with gentle curls flowing freely around her face. Her large, dark eyes, narrow mouth, full lips, short upturned nose, and soft round chin were enhanced by tasteful, expertly applied makeup. Her skin was smooth, clear and untanned, with an occasional small, dark brown freckle. Small, delicate hands with narrow fingers held the paperback and the chalice. Firm, moderate breasts filled out the bathrobe without distorting it, and the tightly tied belt accentuated the slenderness of her waist. Her taut, burnished legs ended in exquisite feet, arching gracefully downward into wide balls, then tapering across the toes almost to a point, ending in polished red nails.
She looked up and flashed him a brilliant smile full of ivory teeth. Jim stood in the doorway while she set the book down and rose languidly from the chaise longue. She stretched deliberately, hands behind her head, for his benefit rather than her own, then crossed the room with supple strides to embrace him. He bent to kiss her, tasting the wine on her lips and tongue. She raised one bare foot from the floor, hooking it behind his leg, pressing her loins against his hip.
This was another thing about Gloria that Jim wouldn't like losing. Four years together, and she still greeted him like a randy teenager. He broke the kiss and she opened her eyes.
"Good to see you," he said.
"It's been too long," she answered.
They sat and he drank the wine she had poured for him. Gloria chatted a little about her latest mystery project. When she realized that he was not in the mood for conversation, she nonchalantly fell quiet. That was another thing about Gloria. She could be with you, and even look you in the face, in total silence without feeling uncomfortable.
When he finished his wine, she stood up and walked around behind him to massage his shoulders. He rose and deliberately grasped the loose end of her belt. She backed away in mock shyness; he stayed put, holding the end of the belt. The knot slowly unraveled and the bathrobe fell open. She shrugged the garment off her shoulders, then shook her body. The terry cloth fell in a heap at her feet, leaving her deliciously naked. He took her by the hand and led her to the bedroom.
As Gloria rolled onto the big double bed and propped herself on an elbow, beckoning him teasingly, Jim took off his coat, keeping his back away from her so she wouldn't see the Ruger. He stole a glance at the closet and saw the fresh, pressed suit he had "accidentally" left hanging on the door the last time he had visited. He would need that suit before he was done. Gloria lay back, spread her arms, spread her legs, and closed her eyes, wanting him with her usual eagerness. Jim felt his member grow warm and hard, and shook his head wryly. Even though he had felt the warm, wet enclosures of her mouth and her vagina hundreds of times, he still wished he could feel them one more time, once more for the road. But it was too risky. The more time he spent here, the more things could go wrong. Once he had no more need of Jane, he could find another mistress. For powerful men, the world has no shortage of willing mouths and thighs.
Planting a knee on the bed, he drew the Ruger from behind his back with one smooth motion and shoved the barrel against her exposed abdomen. Gloria's eyes flew open as she felt the muzzle slam into her navel, a cold ring of steel with an awful, pregnant emptiness at its center. Jim angled the pistol slightly to the left, to be sure he missed her spine, and fired.
The noise was muffled slightly by the enfolding softness of Gloria's stomach, so he could hear her breathy moan as the bullet went through her. Blood spurted up at him, soaking his gun hand and sleeve, spattering his shirt and tie with angry red droplets. He allowed himself to caress her thigh as he stood up. She shivered at his touch and clutched her belly with both hands. Laying the pistol on the bedtable carefully out of her reach, Jim calmly began to undress. She reached a blood-dripping hand toward him, brushing his side, further staining his shirt. That was all right. That was what the clean suit was for.
It was all strangely quiet. Jim had expected her to scream horribly, cry, beg. Gloria did none of that; she just rolled over and over in her own blood, eyes closed, making throaty moaning sounds not at all different from the noises she made in the grip of one of her shattering orgasms, except these sounded more intense. Only once did she open her eyes and raise her voice in a soft question.
He had thought she would ask, "Why?" What she asked was, "Why in my guts?"
It did no harm to explain. "Because, my dear, your sweet little stomach has no bones in it. When I've set this place on fire, your body will mostly be destroyed, but your bones will be left. The detectives might ask questions if they found neat little holes in your skull or if you had a broken rib. But by gut-shooting you, I've left them no reason to suspect anything but that you're an ordinary victim of smoking in bed. Even if they find the bullet in the ground - not very likely - they'll never know whether or not it had anything to do with your death."
Incredibly, a weak smile touched her lips. The amount of blood was now quite impressive. Almost the entire bed was sodden red. Gloria rolled over again. The hole in her back, just off center, was only the size of a quarter. The bullet had failed to expand properly. Blood spurted from the exit wound regularly, about twice a second. Major arterial bleeding. He must have nicked her aorta. Good, he thought, she would be dead sooner that way.
He leaned a little closer. "Don't you want to know why I'm killing you at all?"
Again the weak smile. Almost imperceptibly, she shook her head. Then she gave a huge, shuddering gasp, bending at the waist, arching her back and throwing her head backward. She closed her eyes. The hole in her back stopped bleeding. With a few spasmodic twitches, she relaxed into the broken-doll slackness of the dead.
Just to make sure, he checked her pulse. Smiled. A job well done. For his first murder, this seemed to have gone remarkably well.
Leaving his bloody clothing in the bedroom, Jim went to the bathroom and washed his hands and arms thoroughly for three full minutes. He swabbed his chest, stomach and sides where blood had soaked through his shirt. Taking a scissors, he went back to the bedroom and carefully cut off his belt buckle to take with him. It might survive the fire, and he wanted no clue to be left that a man had visited Gloria shortly before her death. For the same reason, he took the two wine chalices, using napkins to grip them, and put them in the dishwasher with the rest.
Returning to the bedroom, he changed into the new suit, taking great care not to get it bloodstained. Got the cigarette lighter out of his old coat. Tucked the gun into his waistband. Ran his eyes over Gloria's beautiful body in the bed. Slipped the belt buckle into the pocket of his new coat.
He frowned. There was a large folded paper in the pocket of the new coat he had just put on.
He took it out and looked at it. It was lined paper, a page torn from a notebook. He unfolded it. It was a note, in Gloria's elegant, precise handwriting. He began to read it. It said:
"Dear Jim,
"So you did decide to kill me. I thought you would. I probably didn't have a chance to talk much before I died, so I thought I'd leave you this note - something you can read at your leisure, now that the hurry of murdering me is done.
"I hope you didn't strangle me. I always wanted to die from a bullet or a sharp blade. Maybe you gave it to me in the belly? That would be good: a slow sensual death, like the ones I always invented for my mystery characters.
"It was always obvious which you would choose when it came down to me or your career. I could have run away, tried to hide from you. But the fact is, I don't want to live without you. I love you. The last four years with you were the only good thing that ever happened to me. When you decided to leave me, my life ended.
"I'm not angry at you for killing me. Everyone dies, and of all the deaths the world has to offer, death at your hands was what I wished for most. What really hurts is knowing that you never cared about me. I love you desperately. I've given you carnal pleasures not one man in a hundred will ever know. I tried to make your life a paradise on earth. I would have died for you happily. And you turned your back on all these things; you stamped them all underfoot. I could have forgiven you murdering me, but I will never forgive you for not loving me back.
"Every day, I make a telephone call to a bank in Chicago, and give orders not to open a certain safety deposit box. The box is controlled by a computer-coded system that responds only to my voice, and my voice is silenced now. Tomorrow morning, that box will be opened, and the contents forwarded to the CEOs of three news networks. By tomorrow afternoon, everyone in America will know about your mistress, and you will be the chief suspect in my murder. With any luck, they'll inject you with the barbiturate cocktail in ten years. But even if you beat the rap, your career will still be over, and that's the only thing you ever cared about anyway.
"I hope there's no hell. But if there is, I'll be waiting for you there. Good night, my love.
"Gloria."
* * *
On the following night, an hour after the scandal broke, police cruisers pulled into the driveway and found Jim's SUV still parked there, and the cottage intact. When the police entered, they found Gloria Mortensen, dead of a single abdominal gunshot wound, and the Honorable Jim Copperton, who had put the Ruger in his mouth and pulled the trigger.