Post by marianne on Jul 26, 2009 10:05:00 GMT
The Fibonacci Killings – Terry Hornby (SF Crime)
Set in the near future where a microchip implanted at birth records a personality – the new Life Insurance. Until a killer decides it would be fun to collect Lifechips.
Not to be Reprinted Without the Author's Permission
The Fibonacci Killings
by Terry Hornby
Chapter 1
Across the road from the darkened house the big man sat in a tired car; a tired man watching a young woman fumble with the front door lock. His front seat sagged with fatigue, conceding the fight to gravity and neglect. The windscreen reflected patches of dead insects and smears, street lights highlighting his poor housekeeping. The young woman finally negotiated entry into the house. Shutting the door behind her, the street returned to its sleepy quiet.
The big man sat silently for a further five minutes, the face of his digital watch gleaming occasionally when he pushed the light button; too late for good people to up and about. The stars twinkled with their neutral impassivity as he opened the car door and emerged on the next stage of his task. Moving quietly he crossed the road and entered the grounds of the little cottage. No light shone from his chosen window, no noise came as he stood listening, black leather shoes compressing a small flower garden.
Inside the house the woman sat in the darkened lounge room, her eyes adjusting to the gloom of the night. She looked at the bookshelves with their unreadable titles, the entertainment console supporting a large LCD screen. She listened to the stillness of the house, unaware that another stood nearby; the big man with his dark coat, wrinkled shirt and stained tie. He listened. She listened.
Listening is a skill. Patience is a virtue. The big man had long ago lost regard for his sense of virtue, but he had made patience into a tool. With hands quietly by his side he listened, experience holding him still. Dark jacket and grey slacks dissolved his outline into the shadow of the house. The shoulder holster had pushed a permanent bulge into the material of his coat. He heard a noise from within the house, a creak of leather, the sound of someone standing up.
The young woman moved from the lounge room into the main bedroom. The late hour conspired with the flat bedspread to remind her of fatigue. She was tired, she longed for sleep, but some duties remained. Her eyes moved around the room, looking for something out of place, something to inform her, to further her quest. The queen sized bed was well-made, the floor clean of debris. No sloppy housekeeper lived here; photograph frames glinted in the weak light filtering between the heavy blinds over a large window. When opened they would reveal the back yard, morning sun would strike any sleeper and make a comfortable lie-on very difficult.
She crossed to the wardrobe and slid open the mirrored door, a reflected self causing her to start briefly. The image of a young woman dressed in jeans, dark button up long sleeved blouse and black sneakers flashed across her vision. A flood of chemical rushed into her brain before reason clamped down on the fear and apprehension. She bottled her emotions, again resolving not to start at shadows, especially shadows of herself. But a woman alone at night inherits the hardwired fear of society; the night holds the attacker, the rapist, the molester. The man.
Outside the big man moved, slowly opening the window he had chosen earlier. More flowers died beneath his leather shoes before he swung himself to sit on the window sill, one leg silently moving into the house. Gradually he transferred his weight onto this foot and ever so carefully eased into the house. Garden soil fell onto the carpet. Again he stood, listening.
The woman looked at the exposed shelves in the wardrobe. Enough light filtered in for her to make out the neatly piled clean clothes and, on the centre shelf, a wooden jewelry box. Reaching out she lifted the lid which caused the front of the box to lean forward. It was a false front, lowering it on the hidden hinges exposed three shallow wooden drawers, each with an ornately carved centre recess. She placed one slim finger tip into the recess of the top shelf and slid the slender drawer out, a fragrant aroma of sandalwood wafting from the box. Accompanying the movement of the shelf was a very gentle sliding sound, this she expected. She did not expect, however, to hear a metallic noise from another part of the house.
She froze, terror of dark places again flushing her system with adrenaline. Terror of the noise in the night, the imagined breath on the back of her neck, the footfall, the clutching arm, the hand across her mouth.
With an effort she controlled her fears, but realized her nerves were making the evening more and more distressing.
She stood and listened, looking back into the lounge room through the open doorway. She could not see with any clarity, the darkness of the doorway was only slightly less gloomy than the surrounding walls. She looked for movement, for a darker shadow to cross the doorway. She stood, listened and quietly screamed panic into an overtaxed mind.
The big man slowly moved his left arm away from the table lamp, his watch striking the metal shade had sounded like a gunshot to stretched senses. Again he stood quite still, forgetting his eyes and their inability to see in the dark. But his ears were straining, hearing was the sense that still functioned perfectly, it did not need the bright glare of light. So he listened, fearing to hear a sound yet needing to know where the woman was positioned. Was she even now waiting to strike at him, the interloper, the barbarian invader of her evening? He stood and listened.
The gentle noises of the night crept into their ears, the darkness edged against their exposed necks, the house swallowed them in blackness. Outside an animal cried, a dog howled in the distance. Further afield each heard the random sound of traffic noises, faint reminders of the bustle of the day. The sound of their own blood beat heavy into their ears, their breathing seemed forced, rasping and asthmatic.
The silence blended with the darkness to produce the dry mouthed fear known to creatures threatened by night. Time passed slowly as the woman and the big man stood quietly, each listening and yet fearing to hear.
The woman’s brain finally asserted its dominance, turning her back to the open shelf. By now her eyes were seeing well into the dark, she saw black shapes of jewelry nestled on the shelf, and off to one side, secluded from the rest by space and function, she saw a small rectangle of blackness. Reaching out she touched the object with a fingernail, a small click, the tap of nail on plastic. Not metal, but plastic. Her fingers closed around the dark shape and she gently pulled it from the drawer. The slight change in weight caused the drawer to rock briefly, sending a louder click of wood against wood throughout the house. Again the night noises died away, she froze in apprehension. Where did that noise go? To whose ears? She held her breath and waited.
Nothing.
The big man heard the noise. His head turned to the doorway into the bedroom, his eyes searched the dark rectangle for some clue, for his quarry. He moved gently towards the doorway, adjusted eyes now able to see the waiting traps of furniture. He eased one hand into his holster and began to pull his revolver free. It stuck, his thumb found the strap clipping the gun in place, a small press stud preventing the weapon from falling accidentally. Working his thumb under the strap he paused next to the doorway, back pressed against the wall. Slowing his breathing, extending his senses as far as he could, he pressed his thumb gently but with increasing force against the strap.
It came free with a very definite, very loud noise. Click.
Both people had made a small noise. Now they stood only a few metres apart, separated by a wall and the night. To each the sound of their breathing seemed to rush into the dark, screaming their presence. The woman turned to place her back against the cupboard door, ready to face whatever leaped at her from the pit of her nightmares. The big man eased his pistol out, willing his ears to grow and capture every sound. His eyes flicked from the doorway to other parts of the room, never pausing. He knew that the darkness played tricks with vision; staring at one place made the shadows move and imagination became the dictating factor, not reality. So he changed his vision, hoping to sense any attack or invasion in time to evade. His legs throbbed with adrenaline overload, his breathing came in bursts. So they stood, each a little crazed with the dark.
The woman was the first to move. Clenching the small dark rectangle into one fist she took a step forward and stopped. Then another step, then another. Slowly she edged to the open doorway. Finally they were so close they could have touched, save for the wall separating their beating hearts.
Quelling her imagination she summoned her will to thrust down jangled nerves. She stepped into the doorway.
The man placed the barrel of his gun against her neck and said, “Stand very still.”
Set in the near future where a microchip implanted at birth records a personality – the new Life Insurance. Until a killer decides it would be fun to collect Lifechips.
Not to be Reprinted Without the Author's Permission
The Fibonacci Killings
by Terry Hornby
Chapter 1
Across the road from the darkened house the big man sat in a tired car; a tired man watching a young woman fumble with the front door lock. His front seat sagged with fatigue, conceding the fight to gravity and neglect. The windscreen reflected patches of dead insects and smears, street lights highlighting his poor housekeeping. The young woman finally negotiated entry into the house. Shutting the door behind her, the street returned to its sleepy quiet.
The big man sat silently for a further five minutes, the face of his digital watch gleaming occasionally when he pushed the light button; too late for good people to up and about. The stars twinkled with their neutral impassivity as he opened the car door and emerged on the next stage of his task. Moving quietly he crossed the road and entered the grounds of the little cottage. No light shone from his chosen window, no noise came as he stood listening, black leather shoes compressing a small flower garden.
Inside the house the woman sat in the darkened lounge room, her eyes adjusting to the gloom of the night. She looked at the bookshelves with their unreadable titles, the entertainment console supporting a large LCD screen. She listened to the stillness of the house, unaware that another stood nearby; the big man with his dark coat, wrinkled shirt and stained tie. He listened. She listened.
Listening is a skill. Patience is a virtue. The big man had long ago lost regard for his sense of virtue, but he had made patience into a tool. With hands quietly by his side he listened, experience holding him still. Dark jacket and grey slacks dissolved his outline into the shadow of the house. The shoulder holster had pushed a permanent bulge into the material of his coat. He heard a noise from within the house, a creak of leather, the sound of someone standing up.
The young woman moved from the lounge room into the main bedroom. The late hour conspired with the flat bedspread to remind her of fatigue. She was tired, she longed for sleep, but some duties remained. Her eyes moved around the room, looking for something out of place, something to inform her, to further her quest. The queen sized bed was well-made, the floor clean of debris. No sloppy housekeeper lived here; photograph frames glinted in the weak light filtering between the heavy blinds over a large window. When opened they would reveal the back yard, morning sun would strike any sleeper and make a comfortable lie-on very difficult.
She crossed to the wardrobe and slid open the mirrored door, a reflected self causing her to start briefly. The image of a young woman dressed in jeans, dark button up long sleeved blouse and black sneakers flashed across her vision. A flood of chemical rushed into her brain before reason clamped down on the fear and apprehension. She bottled her emotions, again resolving not to start at shadows, especially shadows of herself. But a woman alone at night inherits the hardwired fear of society; the night holds the attacker, the rapist, the molester. The man.
Outside the big man moved, slowly opening the window he had chosen earlier. More flowers died beneath his leather shoes before he swung himself to sit on the window sill, one leg silently moving into the house. Gradually he transferred his weight onto this foot and ever so carefully eased into the house. Garden soil fell onto the carpet. Again he stood, listening.
The woman looked at the exposed shelves in the wardrobe. Enough light filtered in for her to make out the neatly piled clean clothes and, on the centre shelf, a wooden jewelry box. Reaching out she lifted the lid which caused the front of the box to lean forward. It was a false front, lowering it on the hidden hinges exposed three shallow wooden drawers, each with an ornately carved centre recess. She placed one slim finger tip into the recess of the top shelf and slid the slender drawer out, a fragrant aroma of sandalwood wafting from the box. Accompanying the movement of the shelf was a very gentle sliding sound, this she expected. She did not expect, however, to hear a metallic noise from another part of the house.
She froze, terror of dark places again flushing her system with adrenaline. Terror of the noise in the night, the imagined breath on the back of her neck, the footfall, the clutching arm, the hand across her mouth.
With an effort she controlled her fears, but realized her nerves were making the evening more and more distressing.
She stood and listened, looking back into the lounge room through the open doorway. She could not see with any clarity, the darkness of the doorway was only slightly less gloomy than the surrounding walls. She looked for movement, for a darker shadow to cross the doorway. She stood, listened and quietly screamed panic into an overtaxed mind.
The big man slowly moved his left arm away from the table lamp, his watch striking the metal shade had sounded like a gunshot to stretched senses. Again he stood quite still, forgetting his eyes and their inability to see in the dark. But his ears were straining, hearing was the sense that still functioned perfectly, it did not need the bright glare of light. So he listened, fearing to hear a sound yet needing to know where the woman was positioned. Was she even now waiting to strike at him, the interloper, the barbarian invader of her evening? He stood and listened.
The gentle noises of the night crept into their ears, the darkness edged against their exposed necks, the house swallowed them in blackness. Outside an animal cried, a dog howled in the distance. Further afield each heard the random sound of traffic noises, faint reminders of the bustle of the day. The sound of their own blood beat heavy into their ears, their breathing seemed forced, rasping and asthmatic.
The silence blended with the darkness to produce the dry mouthed fear known to creatures threatened by night. Time passed slowly as the woman and the big man stood quietly, each listening and yet fearing to hear.
The woman’s brain finally asserted its dominance, turning her back to the open shelf. By now her eyes were seeing well into the dark, she saw black shapes of jewelry nestled on the shelf, and off to one side, secluded from the rest by space and function, she saw a small rectangle of blackness. Reaching out she touched the object with a fingernail, a small click, the tap of nail on plastic. Not metal, but plastic. Her fingers closed around the dark shape and she gently pulled it from the drawer. The slight change in weight caused the drawer to rock briefly, sending a louder click of wood against wood throughout the house. Again the night noises died away, she froze in apprehension. Where did that noise go? To whose ears? She held her breath and waited.
Nothing.
The big man heard the noise. His head turned to the doorway into the bedroom, his eyes searched the dark rectangle for some clue, for his quarry. He moved gently towards the doorway, adjusted eyes now able to see the waiting traps of furniture. He eased one hand into his holster and began to pull his revolver free. It stuck, his thumb found the strap clipping the gun in place, a small press stud preventing the weapon from falling accidentally. Working his thumb under the strap he paused next to the doorway, back pressed against the wall. Slowing his breathing, extending his senses as far as he could, he pressed his thumb gently but with increasing force against the strap.
It came free with a very definite, very loud noise. Click.
Both people had made a small noise. Now they stood only a few metres apart, separated by a wall and the night. To each the sound of their breathing seemed to rush into the dark, screaming their presence. The woman turned to place her back against the cupboard door, ready to face whatever leaped at her from the pit of her nightmares. The big man eased his pistol out, willing his ears to grow and capture every sound. His eyes flicked from the doorway to other parts of the room, never pausing. He knew that the darkness played tricks with vision; staring at one place made the shadows move and imagination became the dictating factor, not reality. So he changed his vision, hoping to sense any attack or invasion in time to evade. His legs throbbed with adrenaline overload, his breathing came in bursts. So they stood, each a little crazed with the dark.
The woman was the first to move. Clenching the small dark rectangle into one fist she took a step forward and stopped. Then another step, then another. Slowly she edged to the open doorway. Finally they were so close they could have touched, save for the wall separating their beating hearts.
Quelling her imagination she summoned her will to thrust down jangled nerves. She stepped into the doorway.
The man placed the barrel of his gun against her neck and said, “Stand very still.”