Needs more coloring. He touched the bristles of a small camel’s hair paintbrush to the surface of a jar of pink rouge and lightly stroked it on to the cheeks of the dead woman. With the tip of his little finger, he spread the rouge so the edges faded into the pallor of her facial skin. “Good job, Jackson.” He hadn’t heard Peterson come in, but nodded without looking up. Although it was three years since he had begun working for him, Ephraim Rankins still had to think for a moment when he was called “Jackson.” Jackson Wiliams. One “L” in Wiliams. Seven letters in each name. He picked the name because it sounded like “William Jackson”, his old asshole buddy in Lima State. It was the name he gave Peterson when he was hired. Didn’t want anyone to be looking up his past record. Even got a new social security number to go with the name. Duane Jackson in Pittsburgh got that for him. Jason Peterson placed his hand on Rankins’ shoulder, patted it gently. “Let’s take her in to the chapel.
What do You think about Barry Friedman - Dead End?
