The Christine Murders by Regina Fagan Page B

the Mark, and he’d wished he could have taken Christine last week. But that didn’t work out well, and now look what had happened.
    Susan Sayles came into his mind again, quite suddenly. A flash of memory showed him Susan pulling a tank top down in his car, exposing herself to him. She was so beautiful, but how could he be tricked by a woman like that? He hated cheap women like her. Selling herself, she was. He was the only one who would initiate any love making, not a woman like Susan, a whore. Then suddenly he remembered hitting her, several times.
    And then he remembered what had happened after that.
    He sat at his desk, feeling sick panic rise up inside him. He started to shiver. The voices had told him to kill these women. So he had done so, all three of them.
    He felt horribly sick suddenly. There was a brief knock at his door just then before it opened quietly and his secretary, Shirley Lao, came in with a stack of mail and folders. She walked toward Luther, high heels beating a faint staccato across the parquet floor beyond the Oriental rug under Luther’s desk. Shirley smiled brightly at him. “Good morning, Mr. Wilkerson.”
    As she was about to place the mail and folders on Luther’s desk, she stopped, her smile vanishing and her dark eyes reflecting concern and fear. “Mr. Wilkerson, are you all right? You’re white as a ghost and you’re trembling. What’s wrong?”
    Luther tried unsuccessfully to smile, instead making only a horrible grimace. He was perspiring heavily. He found his voice and croaked at Shirley. “It’s all right, I’m all right. I just don’t really know what came over me.” He attempted to stand, to prove that he was fine, but his knees buckled under him and he staggered back into his seat.
    Shirley dropped what she was holding and hurried to his side. “No, don’t try to stand up. Do you have any pain anywhere? Shall I call for help?” Shirley, small and slender, tastefully and fashionably dressed, laid one elegantly manicured hand gently on Luther’s shoulder. Even though she was frightened, her voice remained low and soft. Luther had never heard Shirley raise her voice. She was always a model of tact and decorum, in any circumstance.
    “No, no, it’s not necessary to call for anyone, Shirley,” he managed to say. “Just bring me a little water, if you would. I’ll be all right in a few minutes. I’ve . . . there’s been some bug or something working on me these last few days. Maybe flu. It’s the time of year.” He looked up into Shirley’s worried face. “Please don’t be frightened, Shirley. However, I’m very grateful for your concern.”
    He was mortified. Never had he allowed himself to show the slightest hint of emotion in front of his employees. Never did he display anything other than a calm, pleasant demeanor. But now, here he was shaking and perspiring like an invalid. Well, he must at least be thankful for small favors. He trusted Shirley completely and was grateful that she was the only person to see him in this condition.
    She placed a glass of cool water in his hand, which Luther took with a steadier grip. He drank deeply, feeling better, then removed his handkerchief and wiped his clammy forehead. He smiled at her; she was still watching him carefully, still not sure whether the crisis was over.
    He spoke calmly to her. “Please do forgive me, Shirley. Such a way to greet you on a Monday morning! But I’m feeling much better now. Much better. Just dreadfully embarrassed, that’s all.”
    She smiled at him. “There’s no need for embarrassment, Mr. Wilkerson. I’m just glad I came in when I did. I was late, you know. There was terrible traffic over the bridge this morning.” She moved back around the desk and sat in the chair facing him. “Perhaps you should have called to me as soon as you heard me come in. It’s terribly frightening to be alone when you feel sick.”
    Alone. He knew well what it was like to be alone. Luther had almost