He shuffled the Backstreet Boys and the Beatles with a collection of Beethovens best, then shrugged. To rank Margaret Gordons diverse music accumulation by achievement invited subjectivity, an imperfect touch he could not accept.
It was after three in the morning. His eyes blurred on the next two plastic cases. He inserted Al Jarreau in the slot behind the Indigo Girls. He nabbed Jethro Tulls THICK AS A BRICK between his index finger and thumb. The inept, the sloppy, thought Jethro Tull played flute, sang lead, and often categorized the artist in the T section. Any half-wit knew Ian Anderson played flute for Jethro Tull, the rock bandfiled under J.
Two disks remained. He grinned, satisfied, and jammed Aerosmith and ABBAthe Swedish cornerstone of any alphabetized music compilationinto reserved slots at the front of the flimsy CD rack.
He stood from one knee, smoothed the depression in the shag carpet with the toe of his shoe, and walked through the living room of her small house. The quaint two-bedroom home, a short walk from Bayshore Boulevard, befitted a teachers modest earnings. He hesitated at the bedroom door, gazed into the yellow light, and strolled forward.
Margarets golden hair fanned out on the shoulder of a cream nightgown and shimmered in forty-watt lighting. She lay atop the print comforter, her delicate fingers interlocked. Asleep forever, a bloody halo blemished the angelic portrait. He had bathed her and brushed the tangles from her hair. Deep red blood clotted in a pool on the pillow.
He stared at Margarets peaceful features. His eyes followed her sharp cheekbones. Margarets long eyelashes entombed hazel green eyes. Her passionate sparkle dimmed for eternity. Remorseful, he sighed, "I didnt mean to." He had wanted to make love with Margaret, not murder her.
His other victims were convenient. A pantyhose run, a lipstick-smeared toothgrating annoyances pushed him beyond sanitys vague boundary. Margaret was different. He loved her. Why didnt she listen? He told her, "Not tonight." She pleaded with him to drop by after the game. He knew better. He should have remained steadfast, strong. He surrendered to lustful temptation, thinking this time he could banish the demons for Margaret.
Wrong. Demons never back down.
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Most Helpful Customer Reviews
3 of 3 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
New author comes out swinging!,
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This review is from: After the Game (Paperback)
Norman Chastain demonstrates with AFTER THE GAME that he is a terrific new author. AFTER THE GAME features celebrity, America's favorite pastime, well-developed characters, descriptive locations, suspense, murder and a plot that twists and turns in ways that surprise - what more could you ask for in a novel? An excellent and entertaining read. --- Marley Brant, Author
2 of 2 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
After the Game - Norman Chastain,
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This review is from: After the Game (Paperback)
Excellent book - an easy and fun read. I like Chastain's characters and was able to create a clear visual of each one. This book is especially fun if you live in or are familiar with Atlanta. The murders are gruesome and the details leading up to each are a fast paced series of day to day happenings. I will look for and read more of this author's books. I definately found myself saying outloud, "No - don't go in there !" a couple of times.
2 of 2 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
A Refreshing New Author,
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This review is from: After the Game (Paperback)
Excellent book that threw some great curves to keep you guessing!
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