Page 66 of Mail Order Bride: A Psychological Thriller

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Journal Entry

Author Unknown

He was a large, jolly looking man. He reminded me a bit of Santa Claus. It really pained me to have to kill him. Maybe I’m losing my edge, but I simply wasn’t in the mood. Killing him didn’t give me the satisfaction I’d hoped it would.

It was almost disappointing.

Is there anything worse than a depressed serial killer? What a sad, pathetic existence. Killing without pleasure. What's the point? It's pointless. A predator who can’t muster the will to hunt?

Such a waste.

Needless to say, it was a low point for me. I didn’t think it could get any worse than that, but I was wrong.

There was James Simpson III. A mediocre banker, with terrible golf skills. Maybe I wasn't in the mood for murder, but sometimes you mess with the wrong person and then you die.

I drove to the golf course. I went through the little gate and parked my car.

It was a beautiful morning. The sky was a perfect blue, without a cloud in the sky. I looked up, and the sun was directly in front of me. A perfect angle. Just the way I like things.

I walked out of the parking lot and stood, looking at the fairway. I watched the golfers on the course. I took my time, stepping out of the way of a cart and watching how a golfer swore under his breath as he tackled a difficult shot. He missed the green, and the ball ended up several yards from the hole.

I noticed how his shoulders slumped as he walked up to the green. I could relate. I wondered if he knew how numb I was.

If he noticed me, he didn’t show it. He took his time, gripped his club, and looked at the ball. He couldn’t believe it. He swore again, this time at the sky.

He looked around, as if someone were watching him.

Then he looked at me.

I invited him to have a drink after his round. He happily obliged. He spoke of being burned out, ready to retire. I understood the feeling. I felt like I needed a second wind. He agreed about the natural ebb and flow of life, how important it is to have balance.

To his mind, that was what golf was for.

It would ultimately be the curare that killed him, a simple poison, though everyone would suspect a heart attack. It wouldn’t have been his first.

I don’t know if it was some kind of karma or if it was just the luck of the draw, but that was the first life I took while in my depression. It probably won't be my last.