Read Online A Self Made Monster by Steven Vivian - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Steven Vivian
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Edward retreated to the rear of the room.
“You’re blocking the view,” she whispered.
“Uh?”
“Jimmy, move. Edward has to get a clear shot.”
He turned. Edward was standing against a wall. He frowned, then pointed his camcorder at Holly.
“You can’t bring a camera in here,” Jimmy complained to nobody in particular. Then he saw an old white haired man. The old man smiled, pointing with his thumb to the employee badge on his lapel. He mouthed, “It’s O.K.” at Jimmy.
Jimmy retreated and watched Edward attach the camera to a tripod. A moment later, Holly turned and smiled at the camera. Edward pushed a button on the camera, and the lens closed on Holly. The heft of Holly’s bust nicely filled her blue shirtdress, and Edward resisted the urge to make the portrait salacious.
Edward stopped filming and talked to Holly. He controlled her as a star director controls an eager actress. She was attentive and even smiled. The smile suggested understanding, perhaps a shared secret. Others kept a polite distance. Edward’s camera gave him authority. He stood straight and gestured confidently.
For a moment, Jimmy admired Edward’s savvy. Every girl, Jimmy mused, wants a camera’s admiration. But he forced aside the admiration so he could hate Edward. The hate shot past its target, and for a couple minutes he hated Holly too.
“I think the filming went real well,” Edward said. “You seemed confident but not arrogant, like some narrators are.”
“That’s cool.”
Edward and Holly were resting on a bench in the museum lobby. Holly removed her black Nikes and lifted her left foot onto her right knee. She rubbed, and Edward imagined her rubbing his feet.
“I have to edit some things, maybe even do some narration when we get back to campus.” Edward adapted a breezy posture, leaning casually on one elbow as Holly kept rubbing her feet. “The narration will take a while, so we can do it right at my place.”
“Where do we film next?”
“Probably outside the Blackstone Theater.”
“No more filming today?”
Edward could not interpret Holly’s tone. Was she relieved or disappointed?
“We can’t film inside the art museum, but maybe we…”
Holly pulled on her shoes and stood.
“Where are…I mean, what do you want to do next?” His directorial power was collapsing.
“I’m meeting Kelly and some other girls for lunch.” Holly waved to an approaching group of friends. “I think I’m blowing off the art museum.” She left with her friends. They argued about where to eat as they passed through the door.
Edward hoped Holly would wave at him. She did not.
More classmates approached the lobby. Edward could not be seen without his starlet. He hurried to the men’s room and hid in a stall for twenty minutes, repeatedly extending and collapsing his tripod.
Thank coughing Christ, Alex thought. It was finally 4:30.
His feet and shins ached, and he had wanted a cigarette all day. He had paid reasonable attention at the Field Museum. But the art museum was a muddle of paintings, white walls, and high ceilings. A Dali here, a Turner there, some Monet to end the day. Now, as fatigue settled on him, Alex could not remember the paintings’ composition or texture. They congealed into a scalding red that gave him a headache.
Alex rubbed his temples, offered a weary smile as the students gathered in the lobby. He looked forward to tonight’s kill. He had only the roughest plan, but he did not care. With luck, the blood would share the virtue of a good wine: soothing, complex, inspiring.
Chapter Eleven: Alter Egos
Though Alex was a careless academic, he was a careful monster. He always used a checklist: gloves, knives, rope. Sometimes he scribbled ideas for red herrings, pieces of “evidence” that a killer might leave behind: a packet of cocaine (typically only baking soda, which suggested a drug deal gone sour); a page ripped from the Satanist Bible; a heavy metal CD; Zodiac paperbacks;
“You’re blocking the view,” she whispered.
“Uh?”
“Jimmy, move. Edward has to get a clear shot.”
He turned. Edward was standing against a wall. He frowned, then pointed his camcorder at Holly.
“You can’t bring a camera in here,” Jimmy complained to nobody in particular. Then he saw an old white haired man. The old man smiled, pointing with his thumb to the employee badge on his lapel. He mouthed, “It’s O.K.” at Jimmy.
Jimmy retreated and watched Edward attach the camera to a tripod. A moment later, Holly turned and smiled at the camera. Edward pushed a button on the camera, and the lens closed on Holly. The heft of Holly’s bust nicely filled her blue shirtdress, and Edward resisted the urge to make the portrait salacious.
Edward stopped filming and talked to Holly. He controlled her as a star director controls an eager actress. She was attentive and even smiled. The smile suggested understanding, perhaps a shared secret. Others kept a polite distance. Edward’s camera gave him authority. He stood straight and gestured confidently.
For a moment, Jimmy admired Edward’s savvy. Every girl, Jimmy mused, wants a camera’s admiration. But he forced aside the admiration so he could hate Edward. The hate shot past its target, and for a couple minutes he hated Holly too.
“I think the filming went real well,” Edward said. “You seemed confident but not arrogant, like some narrators are.”
“That’s cool.”
Edward and Holly were resting on a bench in the museum lobby. Holly removed her black Nikes and lifted her left foot onto her right knee. She rubbed, and Edward imagined her rubbing his feet.
“I have to edit some things, maybe even do some narration when we get back to campus.” Edward adapted a breezy posture, leaning casually on one elbow as Holly kept rubbing her feet. “The narration will take a while, so we can do it right at my place.”
“Where do we film next?”
“Probably outside the Blackstone Theater.”
“No more filming today?”
Edward could not interpret Holly’s tone. Was she relieved or disappointed?
“We can’t film inside the art museum, but maybe we…”
Holly pulled on her shoes and stood.
“Where are…I mean, what do you want to do next?” His directorial power was collapsing.
“I’m meeting Kelly and some other girls for lunch.” Holly waved to an approaching group of friends. “I think I’m blowing off the art museum.” She left with her friends. They argued about where to eat as they passed through the door.
Edward hoped Holly would wave at him. She did not.
More classmates approached the lobby. Edward could not be seen without his starlet. He hurried to the men’s room and hid in a stall for twenty minutes, repeatedly extending and collapsing his tripod.
Thank coughing Christ, Alex thought. It was finally 4:30.
His feet and shins ached, and he had wanted a cigarette all day. He had paid reasonable attention at the Field Museum. But the art museum was a muddle of paintings, white walls, and high ceilings. A Dali here, a Turner there, some Monet to end the day. Now, as fatigue settled on him, Alex could not remember the paintings’ composition or texture. They congealed into a scalding red that gave him a headache.
Alex rubbed his temples, offered a weary smile as the students gathered in the lobby. He looked forward to tonight’s kill. He had only the roughest plan, but he did not care. With luck, the blood would share the virtue of a good wine: soothing, complex, inspiring.
Chapter Eleven: Alter Egos
Though Alex was a careless academic, he was a careful monster. He always used a checklist: gloves, knives, rope. Sometimes he scribbled ideas for red herrings, pieces of “evidence” that a killer might leave behind: a packet of cocaine (typically only baking soda, which suggested a drug deal gone sour); a page ripped from the Satanist Bible; a heavy metal CD; Zodiac paperbacks;
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