Private Oz by James Patterson Page B

internet café in the CBD and written Bruce a flirtatious message under the name Sabrina. Bruce always had a yen for what he referred to as “class ass”. And the name “Sabrina” had just the right ring to it.
    At first, he was cautious, but after half a dozen messages all sent from different computers, Sabrina ensnared him and the exchanges became more pornographic. He was soon begging to meet her in person.
    She coaxed and teased like a pro, made it clear she liked to be screwed rough in filthy places. The more depraved, themore it turned her on. She had him salivating.
    She called in at an internet café in Balmain and typed a message: “I want you … TONIGHT!”
    “When? Where?” he responded almost immediately.
    She gave him the place and time, then added, “My panties are getting wet just thinking about it.”

Chapter 50
    JULIE, OR “SABRINA”, arrived at the address she’d given Bruce an hour early. It was a condemned house, fenced off with wire mesh. On the perimeter of the garden stood a large notice-board detailing the new development planned for the site. Other signs told the public to KEEP OUT.
    The windows and the front door were boarded up but she made short work of a couple of planks securing the entrance to the decaying old house. Every window was smashed. The hall was strewn with newspapers and pigeon shit.
    She’d found everything she needed in the local hardware store, and now it was all neatly arranged in the corner of the dilapidated bathroom – a powerful battery-powered lamp, a hammer and a new knife. She surveyed her purchases, hands on hips. “Not bad,” she said to herself.
    She waited patiently. The minutes ticked away. She heard someone approach the door, recognized Bruce’s sounds as though he had left yesterday. He was a big oaf and moved like one.
    “Sabrina?”
    She didn’t reply.
    “Sabrina?” There was a nervous edge to his voice, Julie thought.
    “In here,” she called from the bathroom down the hall and flicked on the battery-powered lamp. She stood behind the half-opened door.
    Julie let him take two steps into the room, crept up behind him, swung her new hammer low and said one word: “Bruce.” He made a half-turn and she smashed him behind the right knee with the hammer.
    He yelled and stumbled grabbing the edge of the tub. She leapt on him, screaming and bringing the hammer down hard on his head, his neck, his back. She rolled him over, smashing the hammer into his face. His nose shattered, blood plumed into the air, hit the white wall tiles. He put his hands up to protect himself. She raised the weapon again, plowing it into the back of his hands. Bruce tried to scramble away, but she kept hitting him, blow after blow … like crushing a roach.
    Her face was covered with Bruce’s blood. She paused and wiped it away from her eyes. Her ex looked like a sack of potatoes, and he was making a pitiful whining sound. He began to pull himself up. Julie picked up the knife.
    Bruce had just managed to shuffle into a seated position, his ginger mullet matted with his blood. He looked up into her eyes as she stood over him.
    “Julie!” he gasped.
    “Hah!” She leaned forward, grabbed his hair and sliced through his throat with the blade. Blood spewed from the wound hitting her full in the face. She grabbed him, rolled him onto his front and plowed the knife into his back, over and over again.
    Julie lowered the knife and crouched down, pulling Bruce over onto his back. His dead eyes open. She brought her face close to his. “Oh, Bruce! You look so pale!” she giggled. “Where’s your manly, ruddy face, Bruce?” She pulled his pants down to his knees. “Where’s your hard-on, babe?” And she flicked his flaccid, shrunken penis. “What’s a girl supposed to do with this?”

Chapter 51
    MARY CLARKE SAUNTERED into the bar in Campbelltown as though she owned the place. That was her style and she wouldn’t change it for anyone, not even the latest Triad gang to