The Tragedy Man: A Serial Killer Thriller Read online

  THE TRAGEDY MAN

  by

  Staci Layne Wilson

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Staci Layne Wilson Updated and Revised for Audible (read by Andy Garrison). Previously Published by Amber Quill Press as Ghost Writer.

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from Staci Layne Wilson, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  Chapter 1

  It was a dreary morning. But the weather made no difference to Cary Bouchard; every day spent at Joshua B. Ryan Art Associates was dreary. Cary shifted in his seat, trying to concentrate on the letter he was supposed to be typing for Mr. Ryan. This one was a proposal for shipment of 1,000 signed lithographs to a gallery in France. As usual his mind wandered, and the words of the rough draft scrawled in Mr. Ryan's heavy, bold hand seemed to blur across the page. Cary found himself starting to type the same paragraph twice.

  He couldn't help but think about the wonderful new idea he had for his novel. Although Cary worked as a secretary--well, officially his title was Executive Administrative Assistant, but he knew that was only gilding the lily--he wanted nothing more than to become the next Ernest Hemingway. A great American novelist. One who wrote stories of substance, one who was respected and admired by his peers, critics, and readers as an insightful intellectual. (And, hopefully, not suicidal.)

  Much to his dismay and private embarrassment, he was currently working on a cheap horror novel. He would have been more than happy writing serious contemporary fiction or historical works of distinction, but his agent told him that writing pulp stab-and-slabs was where the money's at. And whether Cary liked it or not, his agent was not out to make twenty percent of nothing.

  Cary tried to read the massive novels of icons such as Stevie Prince and Gene Coones in hopes of emulating one or both of their styles, but the shudder-inducing tales had only succeeded in keeping him awake for several nights. The Scary Place, written by Coones, had been particularly frightening to him...but the surprise ending was one to be envied, he had to admit. His agent recommended that Cary try to absorb some of Cleve Barkland's style, but after one short story about a hideous tattooed man, Cary could read no more--it graphically described killings he could not stomach. Cary had a very delicate constitution.

  He sighed and looked out the window for a moment, hoping that Mr. Ryan was otherwise occupied. Although Cary worked for the administrative headquarters of an internationally renowned art gallery so chic it hired only male secretaries, he was terribly unhappy there. Not only was he overworked and relatively underpaid, but Cary didn't even have the friendship or respect of his co-workers. They never said anything directly to him of course, but he knew that they secretly called him a "fairy" behind his back. They did not understand his love of books; he suspected with a twinge of superior satisfaction that most of them never read anything other than celebrity gossip websites or the sports page in the Sunday paper unless they absolutely had to.

  Cary would never forget the time Sarafina Rutledge, one of the sales associates, had given him a ride home one stormy evening. She said she had to go right by his building anyway, so he had taken her up on the offer. Sarafina tried to make small talk as they sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic, and he revealed to her that he was an aspiring author. They had worked together for over three years, yet she'd never known anything about Cary beyond his name, marital status and where he lived.

  "Oh, I would love to see your work sometime," she had said, obviously just being polite. "Sometime" was certainly the operative word. Cary suspected the woman had probably never read a serious book in her adult life, but he craved the opinions of all sorts of people. Besides, Sarafina was probably the sort that would be buying his pulp novels...if he ever sold one.

  He doubted she knew who Proust or Tolstoy was, let alone pop-culture pseudo intellectuals like Burroughs or Kerouac. No one wanted to read thought-provoking writers anymore. They simply wanted to be entertained and escape the dreary confines of their everyday lives. Why they chose to do it--and in droves, they did--by vicariously living through heinous killings, serial murders, vampires, cyborgs and abominable monsters, Cary would never know.

  Cary offered to show Sarafina the first few chapters of the book he was working on at the time. She had tried to graciously decline or put it off because she just wasn't at all interested in seeing what Cary had written. Cary chose not to notice her discomfort, however, and pressed the issue, saying, "You can come up right now. I've only finished five chapters and it won't take you but an hour to read them. Please?"

  Sarafina had relented with a heavy, put-upon sigh. Three hours later, she pulled no punches and told Cary that Murder at Midnight, as he was tentatively calling his novel, was about the most boring piece of rubbish she had ever set eyes on.

  "You're trying to write horror? You've to grab them by the balls in the first chapter! This dreck would put small children to sleep as a bedtime story."

  Cary had stared at her in disbelief. Sure, his agent said the same thing, but that was a professional assessment from a somewhat informed literary person; that was not his audience. The Sarafina Rutledges of the nation were his audience. And she hated it. He couldn't keep his eyes from tearing up. As he turned away, she seized the chance to escape. He heard the door close softly to his turned back.

  The next day at work Sarafina avoided Cary wherever possible. Cary was stung by her blunt candor, but it wasn't the most biting review he had received--just the most personal. He had an in-box full of rejection letters from publishers. Full of insensitive replies just as stupid as Sarafina's. He particularly disliked the condescending ones. One editor had written, "Your manuscript is beautifully presented, but that is the only compliment I can allow. Perhaps you should use your exemplary typing skill in a more suitable manner...have you considered secretarial work as a career?" That stung.

  Cary was fed up with insensitive publishers, mean-spirited editors and surly literary agents, but just when he thought of giving it all up, he remembered that Gone with the Wind was rejected nineteen times. And he remembered the now-famous letter Vladimir Nabokov had received on his novel Lolita: "This book has no literary value whatsoever. It should be buried beneath a large rock for a thousand years." If Mitchell and Nabokov had overcome, so could Cary Bouchard.

  In his heart of hearts Cary knew that his stories weren't scary. But oh, how he tried! And he would keep on trying...anything to get out of the hellhole they called Joshua B. Ryan Art Associates.

  "What's this? Nothing to do?"

  Mr. Ryan's resonant voice shattered Cary's reverie and he jerked to attention in his armless swivel chair. "Yes, sir. I'm just finishing your letter, sir."

  "Looks to me like you're daydreaming again, Mr. Bouchard." As Mr. Ryan strode purposefully away, Cary thought he heard him mutter, "The boy has no backbone..."

  Cary watched Mr. Ryan's back as he moved on, ramrod straight. But he still imagined the weight of Mr. Ryan's cold, steely blue eyes upon him. Sometimes he even saw those eyes when he tried to fall asleep at night. How he hated the glacial, penetrating stare of the old man. That was what everyone in the office called him, "The Old Man," as if it were a term of great respect and admiration. No one liked working beneath the iron fist of Joshua B. Ryan, but he did command a great deal of awe from everyone. Cary couldn't understand
it. He himself felt only contempt and resentment.

  Joshua B. Ryan was a tall man whose bearing brought to mind a military general with constipation issues. His hair was cropped short and reminded Cary of fine silver wires. It was almost as if the man were a robot. He always wore dark gray suits with black shoes. His shoes squeaked, and it was an ominous sound that haunted Cary in his sleep. He even had nightmares about getting fired and ending up like one of the homeless bums sacked out in the alley. But he knew that he really could be an excellent secretary when he put his mind to it, and besides, Cary also knew that Mr. Ryan didn't have the time or the inclination to train someone new.

  Sometimes Cary felt as though Mr. Ryan suspected him of being gay. It was true, he had to admit, he did bring to mind a young Charles Nelson Riley. But still, Cary resented the implication. Mr. Ryan often made biting remarks about his lunch-break activity, which was reading quietly by himself at his desk. He also seemed to take great pleasure in snide remarks thinly veiled in the guise of compliments: "My, Cary, but you do make a mean cup of coffee. I'll bet you're a wonderful little cook, too." Or: "You take wonderful care of these plants. Are you sure you've never worked for a florist?" Cary could only bite his tongue.

  Cary looked at his pale reflection in the window, blurred by rivulets of rain as they streamed down the smooth surface of the glass. His face was pallid, and his sandy hair was almost as colorless as his skin. He had gray eyes, which were usually shot with red due to staying up late into the night working on his novel. He wore his usual attire: a gray pin-striped suit, and a red bow-tie, which was the only splash of color on his entire person. His trademark bow-tie had brought him lots of grief and digs from his fellow co-workers, but he would not compromise his mode of dress just to suit them. He thought it was very dignified, in a literary sort of way. Besides, what could those yuppie-wannabe cretins possibly know about true style?

  Cary quickly began typing when he heard Mr. Ryan's squeaking footfall approach, but his mind was still elsewhere. Daily he dwelled upon his hatred of Joshua B. Ryan and the company, but he continued to work there, hoping and waiting for his big writing break to come. He had half-heartedly looked for other jobs, but in New York City it was almost impossible to find a place that paid as well, and one that was only a fifteen-minute walk from home. Cary didn't see himself as a secretarial lifer, so he was willing to be complacent for the time being. He had few expenses, but he did need to keep a roof over his head.

  "Chop! Chop!" Mr. Ryan barked as he passed Cary's cubicle again, clapping his hands smartly. Cary flinched, and Mr. Ryan's smile got bigger.

  Smug old bastard, Cary thought darkly. Just you wait until I'm a bestselling author. Cary accessed the clock on his computer and winced when he saw that it was only 10:00 A.M. Had he really been there only two hours? It seemed like a lifetime already.

  He looked around the office with leisurely disgust, doing just about anything to avoid the work at hand. There were dozens of compartments in the huge suite that encompassed the entire nineteenth floor of the high-rise. Only the principals of the firm had private offices, while the art consultants, appraisers, sales associates, clerks and secretaries occupied small, stuffy cubicles. Cary had been to a livery stable in the city once and noticed how all of the horses were tied into their stalls, facing the wall with nothing to look at and nowhere to turn--that's how being at Joshua B. Ryan Art Associates made him feel.

  However, he did feel extremely lucky that his cubicle was against a wall, and therefore, a window. The fact that it looked down upon a dirty alleyway, or that it was just about twelve feet from the side of another tall building, made no difference. At least he could watch the rain fall or check out the occasional pigeon that landed on the sill.

  He glanced at the computer's digital clock. Only 10:06. Damn. He willed himself to concentrate, knowing that if he could just lose himself in work, the day would drag on at least somewhat more quickly.

  Cary got the letter typed, spell-checked it, took it into Mr. Ryan's office, then went to the kitchen area to make a new pot of coffee. He lingered for a moment to partake in some office gossip.

  "Did you hear that Rita is on probation?" Rhonda, one of the sales people, was practically slavering and licking her chops.

  "Yes, I heard her yelling at Mr. Ryan through the closed door. I guess he wouldn't pay her overtime," Cary said.

  "Yeah, well everyone knows he doesn't pay overtime. She should just leave right at five no matter what she's in the middle of. She should have known." Rhonda paused. "I wonder who will get her clients?"

  Cary could almost visualize the dollar signs in her eyes, just like a greedy Looney Tunes character. He did that quite often: fantasized about how people might really look if their everyday masks were torn away. But the only mask he really cared about was his own.

  Bored with the gossip and low-watt wit of his co-worker, Cary sauntered back to his cubby hole with a full cup of coffee. The rain still fell in great, gray sheets. It was chilly by the window, and Cary shivered, heaping on yet another reason to hate his work. He sipped his hot drink, sweetened with sugar substitute and cream (another thing The Old Man liked to tease him about), and backed up his computer files. When he looked at his watch he was dismayed to see that it was only 11:00 A.M. It was like going to work on what you thought was Friday, and later discovering it was really only Thursday. Truly crushing.

  His mind wandered back to his new idea. He simply had to get some meat into his story. He was writing a classic ghost story which took place at a bed and breakfast in England. He figured that the atmosphere of drear, fog, and gray skies would feed his imagination with tasty terrors, but so far, he had been unable to conjure a single spirit. Oh sure, the patrons in his story had talked about the ghostly legend, but Cary had been hard-pressed even to retell the murder tale which created the ghost in the first place. It wasn't that he was squeamish or frightened...not like he was when reading scary things that other authors wrote. He simply did not have that sort of an imagination. In fact, his agent had done quite a bit of edits and additions already. Still, the story fell flat and Cary knew it.

  Perhaps one of the biggest hurdles was the fact that Cary did not believe in ghosts. The whole idea of a human spirit hanging around the same place, and the notion that most of them didn't even know they were deceased--well, it was ridiculous. How could they not know they were dead? Personally, Cary thought, after 150 years or so, I'd get suspicious.

  After a few more sips of coffee, a wonderful idea for a technique to bring out the macabre came to him: he would simply imagine Joshua B. Ryan as the victim and watch the blood and guts fly! How many times had he fantasized about horrible, excruciating deaths tailor-made for The Old Man? Now he could do something useful with that hatred, and he could hardly wait to try it.

  Twelve o'clock finally rolled around, and Cary got his sandwich from the refrigerator and settled down to read a collection of short horror stories. Since he only took a thirty-minute break, it was hardly worth walking home. Just as he sank his teeth into the sandwich, Mr. Ryan came barreling out of his office and made a beeline for Cary's desk.

  Cary's whole body sagged. This happened so often...couldn't he be left alone in peace for lunch, for chrissakes?

  The Old Man thrust a sheaf of papers in front of Cary's face and said, "Sorry, Care, but I need this proposal typed right away. This could mean a big sale for the company. Chop! Chop!"

  Cary glared under his brows so that Mr. Ryan couldn't see, and took the papers without a word. All of the secretaries in the office worked for the company--why couldn't he get one of them to type his damn letter?

  As Cary typed, he thought of many gruesome deaths for Mr. Ryan to die. His particular favorite was one in which The Old Creep was murdered by the very work that he loved so well.

  Mr. Ryan would be sitting at his desk late one evening, staying behind to go over the accounts as he often did. (The miserly bastard was always riding the poor saps in the accounting department to
make sure not a single cent was lost in the shuffle.) He'd be looking through the ledger book, and as he turned the page he would get a paper cut. "Oh damn," he'd say softly, bringing the stinging finger to his mouth. Unperturbed, he turned the next page. This time, he got a paper cut that bled. He decided he needed a Band-Aid.

  As he rose from his chair, its wooden arms folded inward and held him firmly in their grasp. Frightened now, Mr. Ryan frantically tried to rise, but the chair held him fast. The hold became tighter and tighter, cruelly bruising the flesh of his thighs. Mr. Ryan began to howl in terror as the sheaves of paper tore from the ledger book and flapped in his face like frenzied birds. Sharpened like razor blades, the edges of the papers left a crisscross pattern of paper cuts etched across The Old Man's face. His left eye wept red tears from a deep slit across the steel gray iris.

  His Montblanc limited edition pens now came out of their holders and flew around and around the room as though swept by an unseen whirlwind. Mr. Ryan's horrified bleats sounded like lambs being roasted alive and he struggled anew against the chair's vise-like death hold. The pens flew purposefully around his head, the sharp points making teasing stabs toward his eyes, then stopping just short of their mark. As suddenly as it began, everything stopped. The papers fell back onto the desk, the pens dropped from mid-air, and the chair became an ordinary seat for his executive ass once more. Too shocked and relieved to do anything, Mr. Ryan bowed his head and let out a huge sigh. He closed his eyes tight and shook his head. When he looked up again, everything was normal. He'd just been working too long, that's all, he told himself. Tentatively, he raised his head and opened his eyes, just in time to see...

  ...the Sterling silver letter opener speeding full throttle toward his head. The last thing Mr. Ryan thought as the sharp point of the opener reamed his frontal lobe was, "I should have been nicer to Cary Bouchard."