Hi, friends and readers:
Last fall I published an erotic suspense novel through Bold Strokes Books, titled Capable of Evil. It was my first foray into gruesome fiction, and I am pleased with the product. The book is certainly different from anything I have written before.
I thought tonight I would publish an excerpt from the book, as a bit of free entertainment for my readers. Be forewarned, the story’s not for the squeamish. The narrator manages a motel in the small town of Bartow, FL.
Capable of Evil, Copyright Martin Delacroix, 2012.
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The second night McKinney stayed here, a woman from Tampa took a room. She drove an old Buick. She owned this little dog: a poodle kind of thing called a Bitchin’ Freeze. My sister has one; I hate the thing. It’s a nervous animal—always yappin’.
Anyway, this woman weren’t bad lookin’, and I guess she decided she’d go out and
find herself some fun. Around ten, she come to the office, dressed like a whore. She
asked where the nearest liquor bar was, and I spoke of The Plush Pony. Then she left in
I guess the little dog didn’t like stayin’ alone, ’cause it started yappin’ nonstop in
the woman’s room—Number Ten it was. The dog still yapped when I turned in,
around eleven thirty.
The woman must’ve met a fella at The Pony, ’cause she did not return in her Buick
till the next mornin’. When she did, all hell broke loose. I sat in the office, readin’ the
paper and drinkin’ coffee, when I heard a scream. Here she come a-runnin’. She cried
and shook all over.
I set down my paper. I said, “Ma’am, what’s wrong? What happened?”
And she said, “It’s my dog. Somebody killed her and cut off her head.”
I said, “What? Where?”
She pointed and said, “In my room, in the tub.”
I figured she was crazy or somethin’, but I walked to Number Ten and went inside. I
looked in the bathroom and, good-God-a-mighty, you should’ve seen the mess. Blood
everywhere. The dog’s body rested on the bottom of the tub. It looked like a stuffed
toy, but sticky and purple. The head sat on the soap dish, tongue hangin’ out, eyes
rolled back inside the skull. I nearly puked at the sight.
I fetched a trash bag and put the carcass and head in it. A colored gal cleans our
rooms, and you know how Negroes are about dead things: superstitious and all. She
wouldn’t have gone in Number Ten for a million dollars, not with that dog in there.
I asked the Tampa woman, “Want me to call the sheriff?”
She said, “Hell, no. I won’t stay here another minute. Somebody’s crazy in this town, and I don’t care to meet him.”
She took the trash bag with the dog in it, and tossed the bag into the Buick’s trunk. Then she jumped behind the wheel, started her engine, and peeled out of the parkin’ lot like the devil was chasin’ her. She left her suitcase, even.
I went to Number Eleven. When I knocked, the boy answered. He wore nothin’
but a bath towel. His hair was wet and he didn’t stink no more. He smelled like soap
I jerked a thumb toward Number Ten. I said, “Did you hear a commotion over there last night?”
His gaze left mine. He looked here and there, then back at me.
He said, “A dog barked for the longest time. Then it stopped.”
I said, “Is that all you heard?”
He said, “That’s all.”
I considered phonin’ the sheriff. Then I figured the story might make the paper, and
if it did, the publicity wouldn’t help my business. So I refrained from makin’ the
call. Lookin’ back, I should have called, but I didn’t.
I gathered rags, a bucket, and a bottle of sudsy ammonia. Then I went to Number Ten and cleaned up the gore as best I could. How could such a little dog bleed so much? The job took an hour, and there is still bloodstains in the grout.
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Okay, friends, I hope you enjoyed the excerpt. Have a nice Wednesday evening, wherever you are.