The A-List Collection. Victoria FoxЧитать онлайн книгу.
between them so the plates and glasses went crashing to the floor. He punched her once, twice, sent her flying the same way. Slut! Why couldn’t these dumb women control themselves? It was her own fault, coming in here demanding money. She was privileged to spend a night with a man like him–if anything, he should be asking for the dough. He pounced on her, not giving her a chance to escape. Fuelled by hatred for his sister, he wrapped his long, skeletal fingers round the woman’s neck, pressing his thumbs hard into her clavicle. She gasped and choked, blood rushing to her face. Her eyes bugged, wild with fear.
A searing pain shot through Lester’s groin. In the struggle she had raised a knee and got him where it hurt. His mouth hung open and he made a wheezing, high-pitched sound, rolling backwards, curled up in a ball. She kicked him repeatedly in the back–the bitch had heels on–then hard in the head, once. He felt a trickle of blood run from his nose. Helpless, he watched as she unstrapped the watch, pocketed it, kicked him one more time in his gut then grabbed her bag and slammed the door behind her.
He lay there a while, nursing himself and groaning. The apartment was quiet and it smelled bad. The trash needed taking out, he hadn’t done it in a week, maybe longer, he couldn’t remember.
For eight years he had lived in New York City, waiting tables at various strip bars, the latest of which was Club 44. He’d arrived in town with enough bucks to get a deposit down on an apartment, dive as it was, on Greenwich Street, with a tiny bedroom, a bathroom whose toilet kept filling up with shit–there was a problem with his drains–and a kitchen coated in fat and grease. Everything was seventies in style, from the sludgy creams and browns of the decor to the fringed, mottled lamps, some of which worked, some of which didn’t.
He could hear the TV reporter chattering on. It was white noise to him–only the sound of his sister’s name could skewer the surface. She was living the life of a queen in Hollywood, a rich and successful film star; that dumb fuck ex-boyfriend of hers a Vegas billionaire. Where the hell was his money? Where were the millions he was entitled to? They had taken everything from him, left him with nothing but the clothes on his back–but soon he would claim what was rightfully his. Two murderers about to pay the ultimate price.
At least they hadn’t stayed together–to cap it all with a sickly fucking love story would have been the final insult. No, instead Laura had married the most famous actor of them all: Cole Steel. It defied belief.
They had escaped from one of the most heinous crimes imaginable and had gone on to live the life that he, Lester Fallon, deserved. Refuge, he decided as he lay on the floor, his ear pressed against the scratchy doormat, could be found only in what was to come. Life had been cruel, but little Laura’s and that Lewis kid’s success was only part of the grander scheme of things. The higher they got, the further there was to fall.
Lester closed his eyes, thinking he ought to try to get up. His head was banging from where that whore had attacked him.
Memories came flooding back. Memories of the night he died.
Lester Fallon had been a dead man for ten years now. Killed by a blow to the head then reduced to nothing, burned to ashes by a couple of kids.
Or at least that’s what they thought. Instead he had been resurrected, risen to seek vengeance upon those who’d tried to bring him down. The power he now wielded was infinite: it was what had kept him going all this time. They had no clue that he lived on, under another name but still the same man, only now he had hatred coursing through his veins like life-blood.
They were so stupid they hadn’t even thought to check he was dead. That kid had knocked him out cold, had probably pissed his pants when he thought he’d killed a man.
Lester had come round slowly that night, the weight of concussion confusing things. Swimming up into consciousness, he’d realised he was alone. Voices were talking in whispers, voices all around, telling him he had to move.
Instinct, from wherever it came, had compelled him to wrench open a back window and climb out the trailer. He had fallen in a slump on to the hard ground, where he had thrown up sour, rank-smelling beer. One hand was numb and there were tiny dots springing behind his eyes. He’d reached a hand round to touch the back of his head and felt that bloody pulp, the tip of his thumb disappearing into a pit of soft, wet matter. He’d retched again, but this time nothing came out. Ripping off his shirt, he had wrapped a torn sleeve around the wound, stemming the blood.
For a while he’d lain still, thinking about all the things he would do to her once he had the strength to move.
Faint voices, panicked, hushed, had reached his ears. It was difficult to tell what they were saying. Whether it was down to his addled mind or sheer intuition he did not know, but something told Lester to get to his feet; to run. Staggering up, he lurched into the night, the moon hovering above, pale and lonely in the open black sky. When he came to the road he fell to his knees, gasping for air. Sleep threatened to take him.
The explosion seemed to happen in his head, so painful it was, that when he looked round to see those bright orange flames dancing in the distance, he thought he was imagining it. It took another moment to connect with the fact that the raging fire was in the direction he’d just come from. His trailer was burning. His funeral pyre.
He had kept running, feet dragging on the road, not knowing where he was going. With each stumble he half expected the cops to pull him over–someone, anyone. They never came. Eventually, wandering blindly further and further, deeper into the night, delirious, he’d fallen down on the road and passed out. He had escaped death once. This time it could claim him.
Next he knew, his aching body was being dragged into the cab of a truck. It was light. His eyes were stinging and he had a taste in his mouth like shit, bitter and cloying. His lips were dry and cracked, his head throbbing.
The truck belonged to a long-distance driver named Big Carl. Big Carl wore a string vest and had arms like hams, mapped over with vein-green tattoos. There was a donkey in a sombrero swinging off the rear-view mirror. They drove for what felt like hours, passing the state border as night was creeping in. Lester drifted in and out of sleep, his tongue lolling fat in his mouth, thick as meat. At a gas station Big Carl produced a bottle of water, which Lester drank thirstily.
Big Carl lived in a beat-up house, down a dirt track in the middle of nowhere. He said he’d put Lester up in return for him looking after the place–Lester hadn’t raised a finger in that direction for years but he had neither the energy nor the inclination to object.
Lester passed a miserable two months like this, slave to the demands of his keeper. Something was changing in his head, like he was wired differently somehow. His memory was patchy, he kept falling over; he was forgetting things like his middle name and three times four. Hours passed where he could only stare at a wall, the rest of the world was too complicated, too plural. Weak and confused, he tried to make sense of what had happened that fateful night. It kept escaping him, like sand running through his fingers.
But over time, as his strength returned, Lester slowly put together the pieces. He worked out why no one was coming for him. They thought he was dead, everybody did. His sister would have told the cops that he’d set fire to the trailer himself. She was a good little liar.
Surely she would be discovered. Somebody had to know where he was … didn’t they?
He would go back to Belleville. Sort Laura out once and for all.
One morning in June, Lester made his escape–Big Carl was on a long-distance trip and Lester had no intention of ever seeing him again. He was free. Revenge was close.
But, walking the streets of a deadbeat town, feeling conspicuous as only a freed man can, Lester’s resolve began to waver. He caught his reflection in a shop window. He had gained weight. His hair was different; he seemed taller. There was a steeliness in his eyes that he admired. He felt stronger than he ever had.
Lester Fallon had defied death–there was nothing he could not do now.
That night he sheltered under a flattened cardboard box, kicking the rats that gnawed at his ankles. He slept fitfully in short, lucid bursts.