OVERKILL, Chapter One

INTRODUCTION: This is the first chapter of a novel I'm working on. The genre I would best describe as humorous speculative fiction. Please let me know your thoughts. Would you keep reading? Or, worst case, where did you lose interest? I will appreciate your time and honesty. Thanks!

Poshwood Subdivision, Corner of Magpie Lane and Sparrow Trail, 10 p.m. Sunday.02

Prima’s about to get killed again.

Wondering how many more times I can do it without arousing suspicion, I double back at the corner and stroll once again along the eight-foot-high adobe wall enclosing the pop singer’s estate. As I pass the single iron gate offering a glimpse into the back yard, I check on Prima.

Still enjoying an evening swim in her azure-tinted pool. The same pool that will soon turn ruddy from her bikini-clad, bullet-peppered corpse bobbing like an inflatable floatie. The image will dominate the eleven o’clock news.

What’s that? No, I don’t have ESP. I don’t even have ESPN.

The reason I know Prima is going to die tonight is because she did die. I saw it on the news tonight. The first tonight. Tonight.01.

What? You didn’t know that each day repeats itself?

I’m actually not surprised. For as long as I can remember, nobody else seems to be aware of the time loop either.

I know what you’re thinking. Groundhog Day, right? That movie was garbage. They got it totally wrong. It’s not just the Second of February that repeats, it’s every day.

Another pass, and another peek. Prima’s on a new lap, I’m on a new twinge of regret. Am I sure there’s nothing I could do to prevent the murder?

No, I’ve been over this. My best idea was to ring the doorbell and tell her, “Come with me if you want to live.” (You don’t even want to hear the runner-up.)

And even if I had something convincing to say, I don’t know when the killer will arrive. Not to mention, he certainly had bullets to spare. I could wind up floating next to Prima. Not the way I want to make the news.

The best I can hope to do is try to interrupt the killer from a safe distance. Soon as I see a weapon, it’s, “Help! Call the police! He’s got a gun!” Or, “She’s got a gun,” if necessary. I’m banking on the killer fleeing at the prospect of a witness. The police won’t arrive faster than those bullets—not even in Poshwood.

I spent most of today.02 at the library pondering who might want to kill Prima, aka Donna Maria Saccaschetti. (Yeah, I’d go with Prima too.) It felt weird for me, a nineteen-year-old guy, to obsess over a woman who sings lyrics written for gushy pre-teen girls in love. But I could always say I was looking for pictures of her in a halter top.

So, who are my suspects? Everyone who’s not a gushy pre-teen girl in love. But topping the list is either a crazed stalker or Sam Mason. That would be her estranged boyfriend and recently fired manager. Though Mason as portrayed in the tabloids had always been hotheaded and abusive, Prima apparently left him over a career issue, her desire to cross over to Christian rock.

A loud slam resounds from within the estate walls, and I dart back to the gate.

A large man stomps into the cool glow of the inground lights illumining Prima’s pool. “You heartless tramp! You think you can just walk away from me?”

It’s Sam. Knew it, knew it, knew it.

Prima stops in mid-stroke. “Sam, what are you doing here? Don’t make me take out a restraining order . . .”

“I’ve got your restraining order right here.” Sam yanks a large pistol from his pocket.

He’s actually going to kill her. A sudden shiver seizes me, heightened by a gust of wind.

My mouth turns to gravel. What was my line?

Sam aims the pistol. “I made you, Prima. And now I’m gonna destroy you.”

Finally I find my breath and choke out the words, “Got . . . gun!” But it comes out more like, “Ga-guh.”

A sudden, shrill yapping drowns out my flawless infant-speak. It’s Prima’s Chihuahua, Ariel. When did she show up? She must have followed Sam out from the house.

The noise jars Sam; his gun sight slips downward.

Taking advantage of his distraction, Prima does a flip-turn. Like the flange of a paddleboat, she sends a sheet of water splashing onto her attacker.

Propelled back, Sam drops the gun, which bounces on the deck and plunges into the pool.

Prima dunks below the water a moment and emerges with the dripping steel clutched in both trembling hands and leveled at Sam. “Get out of here, or . . .”

Sam folds his arms in defiance. “You don’t have the guts.”

“Don’t I?” Quivering, Prima squeezes the trigger. The gun slips in her hands, and the shot zings past Sam. The clash of shattering glass echoes into the night, accentuated by more of Ariel’s barking.

Almost robotically, Prima fires a few more rounds. Her aim is worse than her reviews; one shot ricochets off the back gate.

Flustered, Sam dodges the bullets and belly-flops onto the deck, his face inches from Ariel’s tireless maw. “Shut up, you rat-mutt!” He leaps to his feet and charges back into the bungalow. “This isn’t over!”

Lights flicker on in the house across Magpie Lane. Probably the neighbors heard the gunshots, and now they’re calling the police.

I hear the roar of a car engine from around the corner—Sam making his getaway.

As if suddenly realizing what she’s done, Prima looks at the gun in her hand and shudders. She lifts a plastic drain cover and dumps the gun in. After wrapping herself in a towel, she darts into the house, leaving Ariel to shriek into the darkness at nobody in particular.

A large yellow Labrador trots toward the gate, contributing a chorus of deeper arfs and yelps to Ariel’s shrill descant. A leather leash flags behind the Lab like a second tail, and chasing after is a teenaged blonde in jeans and a light jacket. When the pooch shoves its muzzle between the bars as if it expects them to bend, the girl seizes the leash.

Taking notice of me, she flashes an orthodontist-enhanced smile. “Sorry about my dog.”

Giving the girl a nod of acknowledgement, I recognize her as Nichole Goldin. The Lab’s name is Beast. On Sunday.01, Beast led Nichole to Prima’s body. Channel Two interviewed her on the eleven o’clock news. I couldn’t forget her hoop earrings and red highlights. Not redhead red, mind you—fire-engine, traffic-light, highest-threat-level red.

Nichole pulls Beast away from the wall. “Easy there, Beast. Nothing to get excited about. It’s just a little . . .” Peering through the bars, she gasps in surprise. “That’s Ariel!” She turns to me with a drop-jawed, OMG expression. “This is Prima’s house!”

“You a fan?”

Holding the leash handle like a microphone, she sways and croons one of Prima’s latest singles. “Come on, saaaave meee from myselllllf!” Only about half an octave off key, it actually makes Ariel sound good.

Her composure restored, she stares at the yard again. “Prima never lets Ariel out alone. I wonder what happened.”

“I’ll tell you what happened.” Noticing several neighbors approaching to investigate the noise, I make sure they can hear too. “Sam Mason tried to kill Prima!”

#

Ten minutes later, I’m on Prima’s driveway, recounting my story to short, squat Officer Barnes of the New Alexandria Police as various Poshwood neighbors look on. “And then he ran away. If I hadn’t distracted him, Prima would be dead.”

(Yes, I know, it was actually Ariel’s barking that distracted Sam Mason. But Sunday.01, Nichole Goldin told reporters that she heard gunshots and then Ariel barking. Today.02, Ariel barked before any gunshots. And why? Because she caught my scent. So, in a very technical sense, I saved Prima’s life.)

Officer Barnes clicks his pen. “Mm-hm.” He adds a few scribbles to his notepad and flips a page. “Could I see some ID, please?”

“Uh, I guess so.” I take my driver’s license from my wallet and hold it out toward him. “Is that really necessary?”

“In case we need to clarify anything later on, Mr. . . .” He squints at the slick plastic, glinting in the dim glow of a streetlamp. “. . . is that . . . Change Triple?”

“No, Trifle. Chance Trifle.”

He records the name and other information. “Age nineteen, from Paradise Harbor . . .” He looks up. “Mr. Triple or Trifle, you’re a pretty long way from home.”

I glance briefly at the card and remember where I am. “Oh, yeah. That’s my permanent address. I’m a college student.”

“Could I see your student ID, then?”

“Sure.” I retrieve my wallet and swap the license with the ID card.

Barnes studies it and frowns. “State Polytechnic?”

I straighten up with indignation. “They’re fully accredited.”

“That’s great, but you’re a pretty long way from school, too.”

“Oh, right.” I shove the card back into my wallet and quiver slightly. “Um, see, I’m in tern as an intown for the summer.”

“In tern as an intown?”

Some of the onlookers giggle.

I clear my throat. “Uh, I mean, uh, in town as an intern. It’s a neat little program where you get to . . .”

Barnes draws in a breath of exasperation. “Where are you living during your internship?”

“The St. Ainsworth apartments.”

He writes. “St. Ainsworth . . . Isn’t that in Midtown?”

“Sure, but it’s a straight shot on the GNARTrain.” (That would be Greater New Alexandria Rapid Transit’s system of elevated trains.)

“The GNARTrain?”

“Do you not pronounce the G? I’ve heard it both ways . . .”

“The nearest station is three miles away. You walked from there?”

“No, I rode my bike.”

“Your bike?”

“It’s locked in the rack at the playground a few blocks over.”

Barnes scowls in incredulity. “So . . . you rode your bike from Midtown and parked it at the playground so you could go for a walk around Poshwood?”

I flail my arms, fingers spread wide. “I’ll be glad to write you twenty-page essay titled, ‘Why I’m Here,’ Officer, but didn’t you hear what I said before? Sam Mason tried to kill Prima! Aren’t you going to send someone after him?”

“I think we first need to establish what happened—”

Barnes’s partner, a taller officer named Lieutenant Johnson, interrupts. “I’ve talked to everyone who’s willing, Barnes. Most report hearing something like firecrackers or gunshots, but I can’t find anybody who actually saw anything.”

“Nobody else saw Sam Mason?”

“Nobody else saw anyone, except for that little Chihuahua. And I’m not checking her for gunshot residue.” He glances at Prima’s house. “Guess we’ll have to go to the source.”

Barnes shudders. “Talk to Prima? Can we do that?”

“We have to.” Johnson strides up the driveway. “She may be the only person who can straighten this out.”

Barnes follows. “She’s not a person, she’s a celebrity.”

The two uniformed officers reach the porch, knock, and ring the buzzer. Nichole and a small crowd of her neighbors, some with dogs on leash, converge around Prima’s front yard on Sparrow Trail to watch.

Most of the onlookers seem drawn by mild curiosity, but one dark-haired young lady sports a frown of concern. Latina-looking, she’s anorexically skinny—except in her head. Kind of resembles a parking meter with legs.

The taller Johnson does the talking. “Is anyone there? This is the New Alexandria Police. Miss Saccaschetti? Hello?”

One of the double doors opens a fraction, and Prima pokes her head out, hair still moist from the swim. Ariel yips inside, and camera phones flash from the amassed audience.

I detect among them a common sense of awe at glimpsing the neighborhood’s resident celeb, except from the nervous señorita. She jerks in shock and then takes a long, slack-jawed look at the front porch—almost as if surprised to see Prima alive.

Prima acknowledges the crowd and the police and then greets them with a broad stage grin as if on tour. “Hello, Officers. How are you doing tonight?”

“We’re fine, but we had reports of gunshots.”

“Oh, that.” She looks up for a moment. “I set off some firecrackers.”

Johnson frowns. “Firecrackers?”

“A little stunt for a video.”

Barnes clears his throat. “Uh, Pri—uh, Miss Saccascetti, we understand that you, uh, may have had a visitor tonight? Someone seen with you by the pool? Maybe threatening to hurt you?”

Prima purses her lips. “Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no . . .” She pauses, then lets her words trickle out. “The best way to explain what was seen is . . . a hologram.”

“A hologram?”

“I could tell you more, but I’d prefer you wait until my next video like everyone else.” She plays to her audience. “I promise you’ll all be amazed.”

Cheers and clapping from all. The crowd is pretty much unified in their adoration, because Nervous Señorita seems to have slipped away.

Once it’s quiet again, Prima droops her eyelids. “I’m so terribly sorry about the noise. Is there a fine for the firecrackers? I’ll write you a check.”

The two officers exchange flummoxed shrugs. Clearly neither wants to be branded as the one who wrote up Prima in front of her public.

Finally Johnson speaks up. “Oh, we could just let you off with a warning, as long as it doesn’t happen again.” He looks at his partner. “Don’t you think so, Barnes?”

Barnes gives a tentative nod. “Y-yeah . . .” He starts to leave.

Enraged, I catch his eye and hold up my hand, thumb and index extended like a gun. In a loud whisper, I call, “The gun! What about the gun?” I told Barnes where Prima hid the gun. Maybe the pool’s washed the fingerprints off, but won’t it provide some minimal shred of proof for what I saw?

Barnes clears his throat and turns back. “Actually, there is one other thing.” He shuffles through some papers on his clipboard. “This is rather awkward, but, uh . . .” Proffering the clipboard and a pen to Prima, he smiles in humility. “Miss Prima, could you sign this for my daughter? Her name is Tammy.”

Hopeless. Completely hopeless.

Amid the neighbors’ laughter, I shuffle away to get my bike and head home.

Why didn’t she say anything about Sam? Was she afraid? Or is she still in love with him? Either way, she took a second chance at her life and used it to give Sam a second chance at her death.

I guess I’m going to have to save her from herself. I’m going to catch Sam Mason on camera today.03.

What? You didn’t know every day repeats twice? No, I guess you wouldn’t.