I do not own these characters…Jerry Bruckheimer and CBS do

Revenge is Best Served Dead

Chapter 1

Warm. Yes warm is how he felt as he sat at his cluttered desk with his back to the door. No one knew no one suspected that in their quiet neighborhood of Maple Ridge Court lived a dangerous criminal. Although no crimes were committed yet, there soon would be bloodshed against those who had wronged him in the past.

As I stated before, he was sitting at his desk alone in his two-story house feeling quite warm. His quill dripping red ink onto the pure white paper, hovering waiting to strike down and cut through its heavenly demeanor with its blood coated tip.

Finally the quill sprinted to life, scratching out the name of his first victim. The name was seared into his brain already, but using the red ink to write it down made him feel like he was using Dolores Umbridge's Blood Quill etching the name further into his being.

The name was there soaking the paper with its red venom. His warm breath washed over the paper drying the slow, running ink. He quickly stood up, the legs of his chair screeching across the linoleum floor. The noise didn't bother him; in fact he found it comforting in a way, it broke the deafening silence that usually inhabits his home.

Deciding it was time; he grabbed his bag and jacket off his living room chair, and yanked his front door open. He stepped through the threshold and onto his front step, pausing slightly to pick up the daily newspaper and breathe in the crisp morning air. Waving at a few passing neighbors, he climbed into his car and checked his watch. Perfect, just perfect he had enough time.

He thought, as all murderers do, that he could commit the perfect crime. He was so sure in fact that he wasn't just planning one murder, but three, at least three for now. His first kill was where he was headed now; it didn't matter to him that this particular person lived exactly thirty-three minutes out of his way. Or that he it would take him an extra few minutes to make it to work when he was through.

He of course was smart enough to park a block away from his first victim's house. Grabbing a pair of latex gloves, he left his coat and bag in the car and walked slowly up Silver Castle Street. He was lucky, today there was hardly any activity or foot traffic, and he was able to walk up the street without any incident. He slowly stalked up her driveway and upon seeing no lights illuminating the inside of the house, tiptoed into the backyard.

He peered into the woman's patio window. Seeing her asleep on the couch with the television on the Home Shopping Network, he decided that now would be the best time to enter. He would catch her by surprise hopefully making his whole plan come together better than it would if she were awake. Although he doubted the woman would leave her patio door unlocked, he gave it a small tug anyway sighing in relief and chuckling a bit when it gave after just a one-fingered tug.

He slowly pulled the door open, taking care not to make any noise. He felt much like the man in Poe's story The Tell-Tale Heart although he didn't know the woman's daily habits and he knew that he would not be wracked with guilt, for she had wronged him first. The sound of the latest saleswoman on the television screen muted the noise of the sliding door clicking shut once he finally climbed inside.

Ever so carefully, he inched his way toward the bookcase where he spotted an unusual bookend. Unsure of using the bookend for his murder weapon, he decided to examine the piece further. As he pulled the bookend from the shelf, a large biology text book toppled over. The deafening boom was enough to wake to slumbering woman with a start. There was no more time to think, the book made his choice for him. Before the woman could turn around and gasp, he struck her at an upward angle in the back of the head. She fell to a heap on the ground.

He could almost picture her head separating from her spine. The sickening crack he had heard before she fell made his heart race with adrenaline. He stared at her for a long minute before returning the bookend to its shelf. He pulled a picture out of his pocket and careful not to disturb anything, placed it inside the woman's front pocket.

Pulling the patio door open once more, he whispered "goodbye Elizabeth" before stepping back out into the warm morning sun. With a new found hop in his step, he marched back down the street towards his car. He sat there for a few minutes with his eyes closed burning that morning events into his brain before starting his car and driving down the road toward work.