TIME TO DIE (eBook)

Based on a true story

Stan Wald (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2021 | 1. Auflage
336 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
978-1-0983-6731-2 (ISBN)

Based on true events, Time to Die delves into the mind of a cunning psychopath while following the lighthearted escapades of two boys on a collision course with a bloodthirsty killer and their fight for survival.

Growing up on the poor side of glitzy Hollywood, Loren Neestrom has developed into a handsome young man worthy of a big-screen idol. But beneath his good looks lies another side, too dark even for Hollywood. Raised by a deranged mother, he is torn between their incestuous relationship and the drive to realize his secret desire ... a diabolical plot to kidnap and kill two boys. Steve Bell and his nerdy sidekick, Rick Shoeman, are carefree kids coming-of-age. Their lives during the summer of 1961 revolve around body surfing at Santa Monica Beach, chasing girls, and playing cards. Too macho to ride bikes, they hitchhike everywhere they need to go. Thumbing a ride home the night of September 16, the boys get caught in an unexpected downpour. With few cars on the flooded roads, they're grateful when a man pulls over to give them a lift. Behind the wheel, Loren Neestrom.

PROLOGUE

THE RIDE BEGINS

September 16, 1961

9:00 PM

ANGRY CLOUDS ABOVE the western fringe of Los Angeles opened like a spigot.

The sudden volley pelted the two boys as they darted across the street, sloshing toward the safety of the Chevron station.

Protected from the deluge under the canopy, they shook off the rainwater from their bomber jackets like a dog shedding water. Soon, they began to haggle over which one had to go back out in the storm and hitchhike.

After some heated bickering, they agreed to settle the dilemma the old-fashioned way; by flipping a coin.

Rick dug a quarter from his change pocket and tossed it high in the air.

“Call it! And don't wait until it hits the ground like you usually do.”

“Tails never fails, baby!” Steve shouted amid the overhead clatter, anxiously watching the coin as it bounced atop the slick concrete and rolled in a wide arc before flattening with the perched eagle face up.

“Hah! Like I always say, tails never fails,” he gloated while pulling out a small black comb to reshape his ducktail.

Raking his hair in place, he cast a glance at his scowling cohort.

“I see the look on your face,” he said with a sly grin. “You’re pissed I won the toss, aren’t you? Seems like someone forgot who got us a ride in an Eldorado, eh shmuck? And a tricked-out one to boot!”

Rick clenched his jaw - he remembered all too well what happened in the Caddy. Without a word, he scooped up the quarter that failed him and stepped into the downpour.

WITH AN EYE on his best friend, Steve relaxed against a support pillar and fired up a Marlboro with his trusty Zippo. Drawing in a lungful, he French-inhaled and allowed his mind to drift.

The image of his girlfriend soon filtered into his thoughts, slow dancing with her in the bedroom. Fused as one, their bodies moved in sync to Rosie and the Originals singing “Angel Baby” on the hi-fi; Sue whispering in his ear, “When you are near me, my heart skips a beat. I can hardly stand on my own two feet….”

The pleasant vision slowly ebbed, leaving him to wonder how the evening might have turned out if he hadn’t bolted from her house in a fit of rage when she reneged on her promise - a vow to surrender to his pent-up desires with a night he would never forget.

Lost in the memory of what could have been, cold water seeping through a gap in the aluminum awning plopped on his head, snapping him back to the present; a Saturday night that began with high expectations, only to turn ugly.

Through the flurry of glistening rainfall, he forced his attention to the darkened storefronts along Robertson Boulevard; a vast array of low-profile commercial buildings constructed in the 30s and 40s.

Lining the main artery like San Francisco row houses, most of the cluttered shops maintained their original façades, adding to the nostalgic character of the old neighborhood.

On Saturdays, weary store owners shut their doors at dusk. By nine, the street appeared deserted and one of the only merchants open for business was the Chevron. On rainy nights, its glaring floodlights stood out like a watchtower, reflecting distorted images off the shimmering roadway.

Bored, Steve peered over his shoulder at the historical boundary marker no more than fifty feet away: WELCOME TO BEVERLY HILLS.

With a twinge of envy, he stared at the sign thinking: the city where the rich and famous lived, all in elaborate mansions with assorted palm trees and manicured lawns the size of football fields nestled behind protective walls with ornate security gates - notable celebrities, film directors, producers, power brokers and high-ranking studio hacks; they all played in this prestigious and pretentious Land of Oz, where life appeared idyllic.

One day I’m going live there when I’m a well-known actor, he reminded himself, then he turned and glimpsed once more at his pal cowering from the unrelenting assault, trying to flag down the occasional motorist.

From afar, he looked smaller, almost puny against the backdrop of water roiling feverishly off the asphalt.

****

IN TRUTH, both boys were considered short for their age. Wiry and well-proportioned, not an ounce of body fat on them, fourteen-year-old Rick stood five-foot four, and Steve, a year older, claimed to be two inches taller. Other than similarities in stature, they bore little else in common.

Rick Shoeman’s bright hazel eyes complemented a slightly rounded face peppered with freckles and a bulbous nose destined to grow over the years. His mass of curly chestnut-brown hair was cropped close on the sides and neatly buzzed at the nape.

To those who knew him, he personified the typical boy-next-door; often labeled as average-looking but filled with unbridled zest and a warped sense of humor. His nerdy ways, however, were a stark contrast to his constant sidekick who projected a street-savvy arrogance.

Steve Bell did not conform to any societal modality, fashioning himself with the rebellious panache of James Dean as portrayed in Rebel Without a Cause. Much like the iconic star, he preferred wearing white tees with rolled-up sleeves and well-worn Levis riding low on the hips.

His lush dark-brown pompadour was styled straight back except for a clump of hair pulled forward in a cascading jellyroll. With a strong jawline and welcoming caramel-brown eyes, he made most teenyboppers melt. Many were quick to describe his unblemished baby-face as cute, a descriptive he loathed. To him, the word imparted femininity, something his macho-driven ego refused to tolerate.

****

POWERFUL WIND GUSTS shifted the torrent to cascade in diagonal sheets, forcing Rick to shield his face from the painful slivers pricking at him like a thousand needles.

In the distance, he spotted the glow of high beams bearing down on him. Hunched over and squinting, he put his thumb in the air hoping to be seen, praying someone would pull over.

The headlamps abruptly disappeared, and as the blacked-out vehicle closed in, it slowed to a crawl before passing without stopping.

Perturbed at the ploy, Rick ran into the empty traffic lane gesturing with his middle finger, shouting obscenities as the car plowed through the overflowing interchange.

A corner of Steve’s mouth rose. He’s such a putz. He’ll be lucky if he makes it to eighteen.

Minutes later another set of beams caught Rick’s eye. He pumped his arm repeatedly until the black ’57 Chevrolet Bel Air coasted to a stop in front of him.

A sense of déjà vu swept through him as he stared at the car - it resembled the one he flipped off moments ago, but in haste, he dismissed the notion and yanked on the door handle.

Never one to be fearful, he leaned inside, and as he did, water from his mop of hair dribbled onto the custom tuck-and-roll upholstery.

The handsome young man behind the wheel bared his teeth, then his dour expression seamlessly morphed into a strained smile: “Y’all need a lift?”

Eager for relief from the onslaught outside, Rick said, “You betcha!” and backed out, yelling over his shoulder toward the gas pumps: “C’mon boy, we’ve got a ride. Move it!”

With his coat pulled over his head, Steve dashed to the street helter-skelter in a hail of raindrops. Mid-way, he heard his friend holler, “Shotgun!”

“You’re such an asshole,” Steve hissed as he got within earshot, upset for missing the opportunity to sit in the prime seat. Miffed, he brushed past him and opened the door.

The startled driver hesitated before flashing a toothy smile: “Well hello there. My name’s Loren … and welcome to my web.”

Taken aback by the odd remark, Steve scrunched his brow suspiciously and quickly sized him up: chiseled features like a handsome matinee idol, powerfully built and exceptionally tall, early twenties with tousled strawberry blond hair and lobeless ears flaring bat-like. Most noticeable were his crystal-blue eyes - the reflection from the dome-light made them appear translucent one moment, piercingly blue the next.

Don’t go! warned a voice in his head, but the chilling rain and desire to hurry home outweighed the risk.

After a cursory glimpse at the rear compartment, he grabbed the backrest and pulled it forward to climb in.

“Hey kid, get out of there!” the man blurted, and patted the seat next to him. “You gotta sit up here because I got stuff in the back I don’t want disturbed.”

Steve cringed - three guys sitting leg-to-leg was not cool,...

Erscheint lt. Verlag	1.9.2021
Sprache	englisch
Themenwelt	Sozialwissenschaften ► Politik / Verwaltung
ISBN-10	1-0983-6731-6 / 1098367316
ISBN-13	978-1-0983-6731-2 / 9781098367312

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