The Dead Ringer of Taterville

PROLOGUE

The Fireman smiled through artificial teeth and studied his reflection in the rearview mirror of his rented black Lincoln.

Like uncooked chicken, gobs of skin dangled from his cheeks.

He used the point of his sharp knife to flick off a piece of stringy flesh from below his right eye.

“Looks like I could use another face transplant,” he said, matter-of-factly.

He checked his watch and drew in a breath.

It was time.

He opened the car door and walked casually up to the Victorian house.

He turned.

Watson Street was quiet, as usual. Much like most of Taterville.

From beneath his heavy fireman’s coat, sweat dripped down his scarred body.

He rang the bell with the tip of his knife.

This was the best part. The anticipation.

He smiled to himself.

I wonder who will answer? I hope it’s his beloved Holly. I just love

to watch a woman’s face as the blade goes in.

He stepped back, and waited.

Either way, he thought, I’ll have my revenge.

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