Posted by Dr. RADIUM on April 08, 2001 at 22:38:47:
He came into the house, bearing the little brown bag and its precious contents, his heart pounding
with excitement. Today he was really going to do it. Once and for all. From the living room, Reta
called his name.
“Yes, hon.” His hand tightened on the bag. “Just got home.” He walked through the kitchen,
entered the living room and stopped. She was stretched out on the couch, wearing a halter top
and short, short jeans. Redhaired, green eyed, sexy and sensuous. She was barefoot, of course.
Her toenails were painted a light blue; a thin gold bracelet encircled her left ankle.
Reta looked up at him, those beautiful emerald eyes bright. “What’s in the bag?” She motioned
him closer; he looked at her soft white arm, her long fingered, perfect hand with a feeling he had
never admitted to himself before. He drank her in, her soft throat, her high cheekbones, her
luscious lips and full breasts. Drank her in with his eyes, intoxicated with her wine.
“Something for you,” he said, barely able to keep his voice steady. “A surprise.”
She sat up on the couch. “Surprise me, then.”
He reached into the bag; his hand locked around the hard, cold object within. Reta looked up at
him, a half smile on her lovely face, seduction in her eyes. For a second the enormity of what he
was about to do swept over him, and he hesitated. Reta was ravishing, living, breathing perfection
molded in warm female flesh. And he loved her with all his heart. How could he go through with
this?
Reta looked puzzled, sensing his uncertainty. “What’s wrong, John?” That voice, rich and sweet.
She could have been a professional singer if she had desired. That’s what Bob said, and he was a
record producer. He knew talent when he heard it.
Bob. The photos the p.i. had taken flashed through John’s mind, a devilish sideshow, mocking
him. Reta in Bob’s arms, Reta drinking with him at the Verde, a club too exclusive for the likes of
John. Reta beside Bob in his convertible, driving to his office.
“John, what is it?”
Then the other pictures, the ones that maddened him, that set him searching for the thing in the
brown bag. Reta and Bob, the record producer, who was now sitting in his office on Dorgan Street
with a bullet hole in his head, staring at nothing. All the pictures, all the secrets, crackled through
John like hateful electricity. Without removing the gun from the bag, he pulled the trigger.
His beautiful, sexy wife jerked backward, sat there on the couch, her hands at her throat. Blood
trickled from the hole in the soft hollow at the base of her neck, running down her groping, pressing
fingers. She looked at Bob with disbelief and horror in her eyes; tried to speak, but couldn’t. Only
bubbling sounds came out of her mouth; the golden voice that had caught Bob’s attention, the
golden voice that had ruined their lives was wrecked beyond recall.
Reta gulped blood, hands at her throat, a sudden sweat beading her forehead. Throat working,
swallowing again and again.
John shot her again. The bullet crashed through her chest, just above her cleavage. She gurgled
and sobbed, her beautiful body shivering in agony. Looked up at him, her tear-filled eyes begging
him to stop. Her silent lips formed his name.
The gun roared twice more; one bullet for each big breast, tearing into the quivering mounds,
ripping her lungs, bursting her frantically beating heart like a blood-filled balloon. The last bullet in
the gun punched a new navel in her soft white stomach. John stood there shaking with passion,
looking at his wife, his lover, his betrayer as she continued to die.
Her hands dropped, fingers slowly curling into the palms, thin blue veins tracing patterns in their
backs. Her head drooped; her dead, glazing eyes staring down at her still breasts. Her toes
clenched, relaxed as a dark stain spread across her crotch. After a second, a noise spilled from
her mouth; her remaining vocal cords rattling in death, trailing off into silence.
John went to the phone, dialed 911. “My name is John Agostino. I’ve just killed my wife and her
lover.” He gave them the address and hung up. Sat down on the couch beside his beautiful, dead
wife, embraced her, kissed her dead mouth, her bloody throat. Held her to him until the police
came and separated them, led him away.
The gun lay on the coffee table in the bag, as still and cold as its victims. Its purpose fulfilled.