In Laymon's Terms

Adam leapt out of the chair and climbed across the desk. He snatched an envelope knife from a “The Doctor is In” mug full of pens and pencils and grabbed the DSM IV off the ink blotter. Locke loosed a hoarse, pitiful scream as Adam tackled him and jabbed the envelope knife into the corner of his eye. Wielding the DSM IV like a hammer, Adam drove the knife in to the handle before the orderlies could drag him away.

Rain Graves

ILD CARD” WAS the hardest story I’ve ever set out to write. It had to be worthy of a friend I both respected and loved, worthy of his genuine heart and incredible impact that he had on my life as a writer. Richard Laymon was more than an author; he was an amazing man that I feel lucky to have known.

Dick is responsible for hours of long joy, sorrow, and interest in my life—time well spent with his books. He is responsible for giving me some of the best advice I’ve received in the business, mentoring me, and encouraging me to develop and push my base talents to their limits and beyond. Never to settle for less than what I want out of my career as a writer. I’m still working on that last part.

Without his influence, I would not be the writer I am today. Or the writer I will be tomorrow. Or the writer I hope the people I help, will become. I miss him greatly. “Wild Card” had to be something worthy of Dick’s memory, and something he would have expected from me...Even now, he challenges and humbles my abilities. I am nervous to send it off to his friends and colleagues to judge. Most of all, I am nervous for his fans to read it. Oddly enough, I would not have been nervous for Dick to read it.

Rain Graves

IVE BODIES LAY nude and glistening on a tiny, maggot-infested sand clot that gently tugged at polluted fingers of the Potomac River. Four were nondescript men of equal size and height, blonde hair and complexions, with fine manicured hands that bore no callus, no strain or blisters. The fifth man was tall and handsome, black hair and bronze skin with the hands of a man who worked wood and steel for long hours under a hot sun. His hand was outstretched, pointing east, and his jaw was open, suggesting a word or phrase had caught him just before death.

There was no evidence of a fight, and the bodies had not been tossed carelessly over the Maryland cliffside to land haphazard on the small inlet. They had been carried in the rough current by some water vehicle that was careful enough to navigate the rocks and treacherous current. It seemed almost impossible, since rowboats would not have borne the weight of five men, six including the killer, or seven if he had help.

Kayakers seemed the only ones able to navigate the current at that part of the river, and it had been a kayaker that had found them. Not without a handful of horrified people at the top of the cliff on the Virginia side of the river. Firemen in training, ready to reppel down the rocky sides.

The bodies had been arranged like mocking dolls, heads bent raggedly on each other’s shoulders, arms creatively posed so that rigor mortis would keep them up, down, offering like mannequins, for at least forty-eight hours in the early morning humidity. Each had an erection, seemingly an afterthought—but it was the erection that had gotten them into the predicament of death. That much was clear. What wasn’t clear, was why...or even how, when, and where. Or the offset of the fifth man...about a foot-and-a-half away from the others, merely holding hands with the nearest blonde victim .

There were neatly stitched wounds over each man’s heart, and a strong settling of blood along the lower half of the testicles, suggesting each had worn a cock ring well into death. The rings had to have been cut somehow. There were tearing signs of intercourse, possibly rape, in each anus, but no blood, nor semen other than the victim’s own had been found within the orifice. Almost as if it had been smeared there as a joke.

A check into their histories showed they were all affluent businessmen with somewhat seedy or perverted pasts. Nothing out of the ordinary...except...the fifth man did not fit the profile of the others. He’d been a carpenter working on the restoration of the Capitol building. Almost an afterthought.

The coroner held up something that looked flat, plastic, and flexible, covered in postmortem slime.

“Will you look at that?” he said, turning it over in his hands.

“What is it, Harry?” Nick said, eyebrows arched inquisitively.

“It’s a playing card,” Harry said, flipping it over to show him the picture.

“An Ace,” said Nick. “Where’d you find it?”

“It was attached to the heart of the first one, with a fishing hook.” Harry picked up the bloodied hook, and simulated how it may have been inserted and attached, while holding it up in the air.

“Well,” Nick sighed, “better open up the other ones. See what else we got.”

“Allrighty. This may take a while. I’ll give you a call when I’m finished, with the results.”