THE PRETENDER: DRIVEN BY HATRED
Jim B.

- Thanks for all the feedback from readers. It's only through constructive criticism that a writer can improve. I've taken your advice, hope it improves the second chapter. Enjoy.

CHAPTER II: FREEDOM, AND THE QUEST TO TAKE IT AWAY

Nevada State Prison

Carson City, Nevada

"Based on your performance and behavior in our prison these past four years, and from the testimonies of psychologists and fellow inmates, I can safely assume that you are free to re-enter society, posing no greater threat to any other citizen in this great state of Nevada." The prison's parole board office was filled with a cacophony of murmurs from the civilian prisoners, many cursing the decision to let a convicted murderer walk free. All eyes were on the ex-con, a middle-aged man with a somber look on a face scarred by numerous beatings, desperately trying to hide his progressing baldness with a comb-over. The board chairman banged his gavel to call for silence. "Congratulations Peter Morgan, you're a free man."

"Thank you, sir," Morgan said in a sympathetic tone. "During my time in prison, I have been haunted by the memories of what I did to that poor girl. Simply apologizing for my actions will never repair the damage I have done. I only hope that some day I can atone for my sins, and gain the forgiveness of God, Miss Blaire, and all the others I've hurt." The gavel was banged again and Morgan was led out of the boardroom by a guard. No one missed his ever-increasing smile as he left, the smile of a free man.

The next morning Morgan walked out the gates of the penitentiary with some of his personal belongings, state-allotted money and the rest of his own funds, clad in a freshly-pressed suit and carrying a superior look on his face. He needed to be escorted out by a guard for his protection: a number of people had assembled outside the prison to protest his release. Morgan occasionally had to duck some debris thrown his way, but for the most he ignored the cries of the protestors. The cries of "Murderers can't walk our streets!", "Justice for Maggie Blaire!," and "Give Morgan the gas!" all fell deafly on his ears. Still dodging insults and heavy trash, he was escorted to a cab outside the main prison gate and driven into the city.

The cab stopped at the Plaza 50 strip mall, where Morgan got out. He paid the driver $15 and watched him speed off. Morgan was grateful the ride hadn't cost him too much; he had very little money left since most of his funds had been used to pay the family of Maggie Blaire, and the rest had gone to his ex-wife Kitty for alimony. "Divorced me in prison," Morgan sighed, lamenting his former wife. "So I slapped her around a little. I still loved her. Probably better off without her anyway." Trying to ignore his wife, Morgan thought about something he'd been deprived of for the last four years, a hot meal. He went to a Subway in the shopping center's dining plaza to get a decent lunch.

"Turkey on Italian rye, with extra tomatoes and Provelone," he gave his order to a young black man in glasses behind the counter.

"Okay, turkey on Italian rye, that'll be $20," the black man said.

"What the hell are you talking about? The menu says a regular sub costs $7.50."

"Sorry sir, murderers pay extra," the clerk commented, giving Morgan a dirty look. Not willing to pay any more than he needed to for a sandwich, Morgan walked away. He picked up a newspaper from a stand and sat at one of the plaza's tables. As he read the headlines, he noticed how many people were avoiding him, ostracizing him because they knew of what he'd done.

"Go ahead, treat me like a pariah," he grumbled. "Like you're all better than me." He went back to the paper. Interestingly, he was on the front page. It was only a short article, but the headline got right to the point: "MURDERER WALKS FREE THANKS TO EARLY PAROLE." Morgan assumed that everyone had already read the story, seen his picture which had been captioned "Convicted murderer Peter Morgan," and decided not to associate with a felon. He silently cursed and continued to thumb through the edition, heading for the classified section. If he wanted to make some money back, he'd need a job, and there was no chance he'd be hired back at the Marquis. Morgan's nose ached at the thought of his old job. It had been broken by his old boss Steve Hanlon's goons after he was accused of stealing money from the casino, and any unpleasant memories of that day brought back the pain.

"I better find something good. If the worse comes, I could be working alongside that jerk at the Subway." He continued to search for the want ads, but was stopped by a story in the national section. His eyes narrowed in on the article: "KILLER COUNCILMAN BROUGHT IN BY MECHANIC" the headline read. Morgan quickly absorbed the story. A city council member from Phoenix was arrested for a fatal hit-and-run. The person who exposed him was a mechanic named Jarod Goodwrench. Next to the story was a picture of the heroic handyman, a close-up shot from a Fourth of July parade the garage he worked at participated in. Morgan eyeballed the photo of the man, and was shocked when he saw his face. "Felson!" he shouted, and the anger began to rise within him.

The pain in Morgan's nose returned stronger than before as he remembered that fateful day. Advised by the Marquis' new head of security, Jarod Felson, Morgan agreed to help expose a scam where thousands of dollars were being siphoned from the casino. He'd gone along with it, hoping that Hanlon would reward his efforts. Unfortunately, there was no scam, it was just a ploy by that Felson to get him arrested.

The pain intensified as his mind flashed back to the events that transpired when he walked into Hanlon's office after the sting had gone down. "Steve, you won't believe what I've been doing," he said exuberantly, hoping to garner praise and possibly a promotion from his boss.

"Hit me," Hanlon responded, a cold look on his face. He was shocked when his boss turned on a video that showed Morgan going along with the "scam".

"Take the skim to the drop, deposit the rest in the bank," he'd said to the fake armored car courier. He desperately tried to explain himself.

"Steve, I wasn't really taking the money. We were just."

"There's a lot of unreported cash leaving this casino."

"I know, and."

"And there's a great deal of money going into your Swiss bank account."

Morgan was greatly confused by this. "I don't have a Swiss bank account." He hoped to defend himself, but his hopes were killed when he was presented with a set of money transfers. He couldn't believe it. These were papers he'd never seen before, and yet his signature was on all of them.

"An electronic transfer for $4.6 million. That is your signature, isn't it."

By now Morgan was frustrated. He crumpled up the phony papers and looked to Felson for help. "I didn't do this. Tell him, tell him the truth." He was ready to kill Felson when the security chief sold him out.

"I am sorry, Mr. Hanlon. I'm sorry I didn't catch onto this sooner." Morgan was outraged. The jerk set him up! "And the figure is closer to $4.8"

Morgan went to strangle his recent hire. "An instinct in my gut told me you were bad news." He lunged after Felson, but was stopped by two security guards. They held him and began beating him severely, working the gut and the face. He desperately tried to get them to stop. "Steve, I didn't do anything wrong!" he shouted, but to no avail. His eyes narrowed on Felson when they momentarily stopped. "Felson, dammit. I didn't do anything. I didn't do anything wrong," he growled.

Felson got right up to Morgan's face and answered him unsympathetically. "Neither did Maggie Blaire." The guards continued beating him while Felson left the office. Even through the pain, Morgan's mind was elsewhere. How did he know about him and Maggie?

"Felson, come back here!" he shouted, but he didn't return. The only people who entered the room were a group of police officers. A middle-aged black man, Detective Richard Bindle, stopped the guards from beating him and slipped a pair of handcuffs on Morgan.

"Peter Morgan, you're under arrest for the murder of Maggie Blaire. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney before speaking to the police and the right to have an attorney present during questioning now or in the future. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you before questioning."

"Felson, if I get my hands on you you're a dead man!" Morgan shouted, but to no avail. Detective Bindle finished reading him his rights and led Morgan away. More unpleasant memories came flooding back to him. He remembered the trial, how evidence he thought he'd eliminated resurfaced, how his own wife testified against him on the stand, how the judge gave him a life sentence. But that was all in the past, now he had his freedom, and information on the man who put him away. After a convincing performance as a repentant sinner, his true persona was again emerging.

"You really think that changing your name will help you, Felson," he muttered with rage. "All the time you spent in the casino, you forgot a golden rule: never mess with the house. Time for you to pay up." Morgan got up from the table and headed out of the mall, ignoring the spiteful comments from the other patrons. The only thing he focused on was locating Felson. First he had to get his car; it had been in impound since the day he went to prison. Granted, it would be costly, but he figured it would all be worth it if he could just put a bullet between the eyes of Jarod Felson. Grinning, he went to the mall's entry and hailed another cab. He needed to get to the impound lot..

Dawson's Auto & Body Repair

Phoenix, Arizona

"Even for a freak like Jarod, I can't fathom why he'd do this," Mr. Lyle said as he surveyed the garage. "The guy could have worked anywhere in a cool climate, yet he chose to sweat it out half of each day in a garage near the desert. During the hottest month of the year, no less."

"Jarod's madness always has a logical method behind it, baby brother," Miss Parker commented. "It doesn't matter where he's working as long as he can instill his own perverse style of justice." She wiped a brow of sweat from her forehead. The desert heat was excruciating. "Let's get inside. We might be able to get a good lead, and hopefully it's air- conditioned in there." They left their car and walked into the garage's main office.

Once inside, they probed Rachel Dawson for information about her ex- employee. "Fine man, Jarod," she said, smiling as she reminisced. "Most days he was here before I was, always giving his work a hundred percent or more. Very friendly person, too. Wasn't too rare that people would stay for quite a while after the work was done to have a nice chat with him. Reminded me quite a bit of my husband David, God rest his soul."

She opened a drawer in her work desk and pulled out a rectangular package and a red notebook. "He left these here before he headed out. Said to give them to some friends if they stopped by. Either an old man with a fatherly-face, a brunette woman with a permanently sour outlook on life, or a guy with no thumb. Neither of you have a very fatherly face, but you fit his descriptions, so I guess these are for you."

Rachel handed the packages to the two Centre operatives, Lyle taking the notebook and Parker the package. Lyle looked through each of the pages, finding information regarding auto repair and scattered newspaper articles. "LOCAL CHILD KILLED IN FATAL HIT-AND-RUN", one of the headlines exclaimed, "HALSTROM FAMILY WEEPS OVER THE LOSS OF THEIR CHILD," another said. "A logical method to his madness," Lyle muttered. "Catch a killer driver, bring a family solace. Very noble, Jarod, but don't think it clears you in my book."

Miss Parker was very confused by her package. She'd opened the parcel and found it to be a CD rack, each slot containing a Genesis album. "Jarod really loved Phil Collins," Rachel commented. "Whenever he was in the garage, he'd blast some music, sing along, pretty soon have everyone else joining in. I never went for that stuff myself. I prefer the classic soul. Luther Vandross, Mel Torme, Al Greene. They were wonderful." Parker noticed a slip of paper in between two of the racks. She pulled it out and read the message:

"Now I can't keep you Mama, but I know you're always there. You listen, you teach me Mama, and I know inside you care. So get down, down here beside me, oh you ain't going nowhere. No I WON'T HURT YOU, MAMA, but it's getting so hard." "Genesis" (1983) Banks/Collins/Rutherford

Miss Parker was puzzled by the note, but she knew what the bold
letters represented. Another of his little taunting clues about what happened to her mother. She put in her pocket and waved to Lyle. "We'll get nothing here. Let's head out." They thanked Rachel for her time and left the office. Upon exiting, they noticed a man who seemed to be tampering with their car. Concerned, Parker drew her gun and cocked it. The man heard it and put his hands up.

"Whoa, whoa, ease up there. I'm just cleaning the windows," the man said, trying to defend himself. With his hands still in the air, he turned around and showed himself, a man in his mid 30s, slightly chubby, with a brown crewcut. He wore a mechanic's outfit identifying him as an employee of the garage. "I'm Chris, I just thought it would be good if the windows got a little wash. They were pretty dusty from the ride over. Could pose quite a risk for a driver."

"We applaud your initiative and good intentions, but if you think you're getting a tip for that you're dead wrong," Lyle stated. He got in the driver's seat, Parker in the passenger side, and they drove off. Chris stared at the car as it headed over the horizon.

"Thanks a lot, scumbags. Now I know why Jarod asked me to give your car my own unique tune-up," he shouted, knowing they wouldn't hear him. Chuckling, Chris headed back into the garage to do some work. As the car sped down the road, Parker began to sweat again. The desert heat did not agree with her.

"I always thought time with you was hell on," she said to Lyle, "but I never thought the heat would accompany me. Crank on the AC, I'm roasting." Lyle adjusted the climate control knob, but it failed to activate. He repeated it a few more times, but no air came out. "What the hell is wrong with that thing?" Parker fumed. She then tried the knob herself, but to no avail. Groaning, she laid back in her seat, but her eye caught something in one of the air conditioning vents. It was another sheet of paper, a corner sticking out for easy reach. She pulled it out and read the message:

"Chris does some fine work, doesn't he? Hopefully it isn't too long a drive back to the jet. Long exposure to extreme temperatures can be excruciating. Thankfully, it's only a dry heat. Adios, amigos.
Jarod."

"Miserable little. look at this!" she shouted, handing Lyle the paper. He glanced it over and grunted in frustration, knowing that it would take two hours to reach the Centre jet, two hours with a woman he hated and no cool air.

"I am definitely going to kill him when I see him," he commented, wiping some of the building sweat from his own brown as the car headed down the dusty Arizona road.

"People here in Arizona are quite friendly," Peter Morgan contemplated as he pulled out of the driveway of Carmen's Pollo Palace in Mesa, Arizona. He'd inquired about Jarod to the owner, Carmen Solis, who'd informed him that he'd spent two weeks there as a waiter. Using the picture from the paper, he'd also gleamed some information from the restaurant regulars who knew Jarod as to where he was going. From what he'd heard, Jarod had some business "south of the border." "Trying to leave the country. Still won't save you, Felson." His plan had gone very well; after getting his car back and withdrawing his remaining money from the bank, he told his parole officer he'd found a job offer in Phoenix. All he needed to do was call every week, make a personal appearance once a month, and he'd still be in good with the law. "Won't even take me a month to get what I need," Morgan muttered as he drove south. Once in Mexico, he'd finally be able to even the score with the man who put him away. But there was still one thing he needed for complete satisfaction, a gun. He was very thankful that firearm background checks weren't used in Mexico. He passed by a sign indicating he was only 200 miles from the U.S./Mexican border. "200 miles to go and you're mine, Felson. Let's see you weasel your way out of this."