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Back Black Ambrosia Save as PDF
Chapters (46)
  1. CoverImage
  2. Introduction by Grady Hendrix
  3. Acknowledgments
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. About the Author
  46. About the Cover

“Anyway, she was long gone by the time I put it all together. I was the only one who could know. No one else knew her attitudes, her . . . personality twist, I guess I’d have to call it. She was just a little bit different. No one else knew about the towel. I saw it right out of her closet, and then saw it again, covered with Mr. Simpson’s blood.

“I began to think about her. I wrote down every­thing I could remember about her, everything she said, and I began to subscribe to different newspapers, looking for something suspicious, some murder with her M.O., any lead to follow up on, any clue to her whereabouts. I stashed money and kept a suitcase packed and ready, just waiting for a lead. I slacked off at work, even took a demotion from construction foreman to flunkie so I could cut out at the whistle and go hang out at the police station. The cops kind of enjoyed the fact that I was so fascinated with the case.

“I knew that Angelina and I’d meet up again someday. And every morning when I woke up, I wondered if this would be the day, and I’d look at that suitcase waiting there by my bedroom door, and I prayed for it.

“But it didn’t happen. For almost a year, I waited.

“The more I thought about her, though, the more I began to dream about her, the more my imagination got carried away. There were times when I could have sworn I was with her . . .”

15

15

For five months after leaving Sarah’s cottage, seren­dipity pushed and pulled me around the West. I grew increasingly frustrated and angry over feelings for which I had no names. There were no definitions, no dividing lines, no labels for the torrents of emotion that ravaged my soul.

I knew I was special, I knew I had a purpose, a calling—but during this confusing time I hated it, hated the thought of it. I raged against God, against Nature; I thought of myself as a joke. There was nothing, nothing, for which I was suited.

I tried to keep on the move and away from Westwater, Nevada. It continued to haunt me; my weird attraction for Boyd continued to pull on me.

My life was a disaster. My memories of this period are foggy, like looking back through warped, smoked glass. I moved all the time, barely resting, barely eating. I dared not get caught up with anything, dared not become attached to anyone or anything. There was no joy in my life; there was no companion­ship. I heard no music, no words of sweetness were whispered delicately into my ear; I learned little, except about misery.